


never was a quitter

by jediseagull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Gen, Id Fic, Rule 63, THE MOST ID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jediseagull/pseuds/jediseagull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hockey is easy. </p><p>But being friends with Patrick Kane? That's another story.</p><p>(Or: Madison, and all that comes after.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	never was a quitter

**Author's Note:**

> They say it takes a village, and sometimes it does. Other times, it takes three strangers on the internet. 
> 
> Thanks to johnnybabechuk on Tumblr for encouragement and proofreading when this was a very shoddy half-written first draft, to renkayli for being so incredibly enthusiastic and thoughtful about all the tiny details of worldbuilding that made it into this story (and the ones that didn't!), and to artifx, who like a true champion was cheerleader, sounding board, and editor in turns. Thank you for being sensible and patient with me even when I wanted to throw my laptop into the ocean and never write again. 
> 
> Now, for the serious stuff. This is a story where Jonny is a cis!female, and always has been. The short version is that it's not meant to detract from the stories about trans or intersex people's experiences, but it is not those stories. The long version involves spoilers, so I'm happy to talk about it (or any other questions/comments/feedback) on [Tumblr](jedi-seagull.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Specific content warnings are in the end notes; the title is, of course, from Roxette's "The Look", because it's still a story about Captain Shark Eyes.
> 
>    
>  **ETA: This fic was written and posted before the rape allegations against Patrick Kane, but happens to discuss related subject matter because it was based on personal frustration with the way the NHL has dealt with violence against women in the past - please check the content warnings if you have any concerns. It is not meant to be an expression of support for Kane's actions.**

**May**

So Madison is a thing that happens.

**June**

Jonny stands in front of the press and says, “We just want him to know we’re supporting him. He’s still learning, and he’s still a part of this organization. It’s a lot of pressure – other kids at 23, 24 years old, they’re not under a microscope the same way, and that’s tough. He’s probably beating himself up over it, but Kane’s always given 110% to this organization. When we strap on our skates again, I think he’ll be able to focus on playing the best hockey possible.”

Some asshole in the front row shouts, “And what about the rumors that he attacked a woman while under the influence? Will you feel safe with him in the locker room?”

Jonny takes a second to picture breaking the guy’s nose with her stick in graphic detail, and says, “No further questions, guys, thanks.”

She already knows what people are going to say. If she defends Patrick, she’s a bad role model setting women back to the Dark Ages. If she throws him under the bus – and she’s been tempted to more than once in the last six weeks, because she’s dealing with this mess when she could be home in Winnipeg – then she’s a shitty captain who’s letting her hormones get in the way of what’s best for the team. The ‘no comment’ is going to draw flak from both sides, but maybe then they’ll be too busy fighting each other to bother her.

The truth is more complicated than that.

She thumbs open the last text she’d gotten from Kaner. It’s dated May 7th, and reads, simply: _sorry, jonny_.

Below it is her response, three minutes and one frantic Google search later. _shut up and go home. we’ll handle it._

Too little, too late. Then again, she hadn’t exactly thought she’d need to include, ‘and try not to get smashed with a bunch of underage kids’ as a postscript to her traditional end of season speech.

She knows he’s in Buffalo now because Donna Kane had left her own apologetic voicemail, promising to keep an eye on him until the season started, but Pat’s gone radio silent since that first text.

The plan had been for him to lay low until the minor scandal ran out of steam; one hockey player’s drunken escapades couldn’t fuel more than a week or two of news.

Unless, of course, that player had both a documented history of violence and anonymous eyewitnesses accusing him of trying to choke a girl who turned him down.

In _Wisconsin_. Like this whole thing isn’t awful and humiliating enough for her as it is.

This is the kind of media shitstorm that ends careers. The fans are out for blood, and while Jonny’s always thrived under pressure, she can’t win here. All she can do is try to minimize their losses. She can’t even bitch Pat out in person for putting her through this, because he’s under mom-enforced house arrest by her own damn orders.

And if she’s being honest with herself, that’s probably for the best. The fact of the matter is that Patrick’s always been too likeable for his own good, and Jonny would forgive him in a heartbeat if she gives herself the chance. Even knowing that she shouldn’t, she wants to, and the impulse fills her with a sick shame. Acknowledging that he made a mistake doesn’t make it _okay_. The distance is a chance to work on her self-discipline. When she sees him again, she’ll be ready.

In the meantime, Jonny does what she always does when she’s frustrated with no outlet, and hits the gym. Winning does a lot for any team’s reputation. She can’t fix Kaner, but Jonny’s gonna drag the Blackhawks’ name back out of the mud if it fucking kills her.

**July**

June comes and goes. Pat doesn’t get traded, and Jonny doesn’t get her Winnipeg vacation.

Instead, she has to spend the week before the convention in endless meetings with the PR department and the front office. The threat of a lockout is hanging over all of their heads, and making money off the convention is increasingly important as the chance for a normal season dwindles.

She knows they made Kaner fly in early too, but it’s still a shock to see him, tense in an ill-fitting suit, when she walks into Bowman’s office on Monday morning. She drops heavily into the open chair, and doesn’t look anywhere but Stan’s face, serious and firm as he says, “Glad you could join us. We’re going to give the whole team a version of this speech, but it matters most for the two of you. We need to present a united front. If people think there’s a rift between the faces of the franchise, they’re going to try to exploit that in the media, and they’re going to try to exploit that on the ice. So we’re going to manage the press as best as we can, but no matter what they throw at you, you _stick to your line_. You’re keeping the focus on hockey. Got it?”

Jonny nods, seeing Pat do the same out of the corner of her eye.

“Good,” Bowman says. “Now, I’ve got a few more things to discuss with you, Jeanne, but Patrick, you’re free to go.” Kaner takes it as the dismissal it was intended to be, and stands.

“Thanks again,” he says quietly, holding out his hand to shake. Bowman grips it with a tired smile.

“You’re a good kid, Pat. Let’s just try and make sure everyone else knows that too, okay?”

Patrick musters up an answering smile, but he hesitates just a moment too long before he claps Jonny’s shoulder and leaves the room.

Bowman watches him go, frowning slightly like he might ask her if everything’s okay between them, but Jonny cuts him off before he can actually say it. “You wanted to talk about the lockout?” And that gets him to drop it, which is great, because she really doesn’t want to lie to their GM.

She finishes up her meeting feeling good. The team’s in fighting shape, they’re looking at a big fan turnout for the convention despite their admittedly awful post-season, and even her worries about the lockout can’t suppress the joy she got from telling Stan that she hasn’t had a single concussion symptom in weeks.

That good feeling goes away pretty quickly when she steps outside to find Pat waiting by her car. He looks worn thin, unhappy, and Jonny feels an absurd swell of guilt before she suppresses it ruthlessly.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. “Uh, can we talk?”

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow.

“Um. Maybe – not here?”

“Don’t worry,” Jonny says evenly. “I checked the bushes for reporters on my way out.” It’s not like Deadspin’s been _stalking_ them, per se, but all it takes is one fan with a cell phone camera and internet access to start the kind of rumors Stan was warning them about.

Which is exactly why they’re going to have this conversation here. She might not like the Captain Serious moniker, but she’s got enough self-control that she’s not going to lose it by having a screaming match with her right winger in a parking lot. Pat pulls a face, but he seems to recognize that he’s not in any position to fight her on this.

“Fine. Look, I know you’re still pissed.” She doesn’t try to deny it. “And I get it, I fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Pat groans, low and frustrated. “Jesus, I already _said_ I was sorry. Fuck, Jonny, I’ve been saying it for the last two months!”

She just looks at him steadily. “So?”

“So? _So_? So maybe it’s time you either forgive me or take a swing, because I’m getting sick of the fucking deep freeze!”

“Keep it down,” she snaps.

Pat’s face twists into a bitter expression. “You were the one who insisted this be public.”

“Because I thought you might have finally learned your lesson on how to handle yourself like an adult,” she says, sharp and unthinking, and the words hang between them for a long moment. Patrick’s spent his entire career being told to grow up, but never by her.

Not until now.

“You know what?” he spits. “I tried. I hope you’ve gotten your head out of your ass by the convention, because this? This is not on me.”

He stalks off, and Jonny takes three deep breaths before she can unclench her fists enough to unlock her car.

She goes – where else? – to the gym. Jonny’s had a good thing going this whole summer between repression and working out until she’s too exhausted to be angry, but she’s forgotten how infuriating Patrick is in person. After her usual sets of weights and cardio, she’s still nearly shaking with the need to hit something. Preferably Patrick’s face.

The trainers might actually kill her if she hurts herself by overdoing her workout, so she does the next best thing, and texts Sharpy. _i need a drink that’s not shitty american beer._

Sharpy, bless him, only texts back, _my place in 30. u owe me_. Not for the first time, Jonny is grateful for her A’s. Management hadn’t let her billet with one of her teammates during her rookie year, for obvious reasons, and while Jonny had been disappointed, she hadn’t argued. They all remembered what people had said about Sidney Crosby living at the Lemieux house. But it was one more thing setting her apart, and she’d already been worried about not fitting in with the team off the ice.

She hadn’t needed to. Duncs and Seabs were like the deranged uncles she’d never had, and Sharpy a pigtail-pulling older brother. Between the three of them dragging her out to team dinners and family barbeques and once, unexpectedly, to a tailor (“Because what your thighs are doing to those pencil skirts should be considered cruel and unusual punishment,” Duncs had told her solemnly) she’d never felt lonely in her new city.

And of course, as soon as the Chicago sports reporters started spinning the Kane-and-Toews narrative, the three of them were the ones who sat her down for their own version of the ‘so the media thinks you’re sleeping with a teammate’ talk (significantly less censored than the one she’d gotten from PR). They were kind enough about it. Sharpy had even restrained himself to just one joke about how she could clearly do better than _Kane_ , of all Patricks.

But the message had been clear from all sources. If she doesn’t want to kick off an even bigger fuss, she can’t hang out with any of the guys alone and in private – especially Kaner. She wouldn’t _do_ anything, of course, but that’s not the point. Not when people would leap at the chance to say that she’s fucked her way through the NHL. The Blackhawks have taken a lot of chances on her, at the draft and with the C, and Jonny won’t sabotage her team that way.

So she isn’t surprised to see Seabs’ and Duncs’ cars already there when she turns into Sharpy’s driveway half an hour later. Sharpy’s pulling the front door open by the time she gets out of her car.

“Mi casa es su casa, capitán.” He waves her in with a flourish.

“Thanks.”

“And Abby took Maddy to the park, so it’s okay if you get a little loud.” Sharpy is constitutionally incapable of letting an innuendo pass by unacknowledged, so he accompanies that statement with a leer and eyebrow waggle. She rolls her eyes, but it’s a considerate gesture, and she doesn’t give him the dead arm he deserves for his terrible chirping.

Sharpy cracks a bottle of Molson open for her as soon as she walks into the living room, and they flop down on the couch on either side of their D-men. They’re playing Brawl, Duncs’ Pikachu absolutely walloping the shit out of Seabs’ Link, and she doesn’t have to wait long before the match is over and she can join in.

They don’t press her to talk. It’s nice – weirdly relaxing, even – to get trounced at Brawl (she just _knows_ that Sharpy has rigged the controls somehow), because her immediate and absolute hatred of losing is strong enough that she doesn’t have the space to be angry with Pat; she’s too busy chucking her controller across the room and swearing after she loses another match.

“Penalty!” Sharpy cackles, and Jonny flips him off.

“Now, now, Tazer,” Seabs intones. “All must obey the rules of Brawl.”

“It’s my stupid penalty,” she grumbles. And it is: number three on the official list of Blackhawks Brawl Penalties (pinned to Sharpy’s fridge with a unicorn magnet) is the Tazer Special.

So she throws things when she gets upset. Big fucking deal.

“No shots today,” she insists. “I’ve got another meeting with PR tomorrow morning, and like hell I’m going to that hungover.”

“Sure,” Sharpy agrees easily, and she frowns at him. Long years of experience have taught her to be suspicious when Sharpy agrees with her about making responsible decisions, and sure enough, the other shoe drops. “You can just tell us what’s going on with you and Kaner.”

She means to protest that nothing’s going on, but what comes out instead is, “He said I could either forgive him or punch him and I’m seriously considering the second one.”

“Madison?” Seabs asks, and Jonny nods, blowing out a frustrated breath.

Sharpy hums thoughtfully. “No one’s saying Peeks didn’t do a stupid thing, Toes. But that’s all it was – stupid. Nobody got hurt.”

“Are you sure about that?” She isn’t – can’t be. It would make things a hundred times easier if she was.

“I –“ They’re startled, all looking at her with varying degrees of discomfort. “I guess not,” Sharpy admits after a moment. “But those were just rumors – nobody ever pressed charges.”

There are a hundred different ways Jonny wants to respond to that. She bites back on all of them.

_“I mean, how much more are they going to change? First they get rid of the Ice Crew, now they’re making Toews captain?”_

She can’t say anything.

_“You have to look at the decision and wonder if it isn’t alienating a huge part of their fanbase.”_

She can’t.

_“Next thing you know, we’re going to start hearing about the Hawks’ feminist agenda instead of their Corsi percentages.”_

She can’t.

“Sure,” she says, hearing herself slip into the monotone she uses for interviews after a bad loss. “I guess not.”

Seabs looks like he wants to push her for more, but Duncs lays a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Look,” he tells her, quiet and implacable, “At the end of the day, as long as it doesn’t affect the team, nobody’s saying you have to forgive him until you’re ready.”

Jonny glares. At least here, she’s on solid ground. “I would never do anything to hurt the team.”

“Then you’re good,” Duncs replies calmly. “Except at Brawl, of course.”

So then she has to prove that she’s _awesome_ at Brawl, thank you very much, and is justifiably smug when her Marth blasts Pikachu into the stratosphere to win the match.

The first day of the convention goes about as well as can be expected, after that. She laughs and signs autographs until her wrist aches, and says, like she can will it into being just by believing it enough, “I know people are talking about a lockout, but all of us are here because we want to play the best hockey in the world – and that’s Blackhawks hockey,” whenever a reporter makes noises about how badly the negotiations are going.

At the panel, she and Pat do the Kane-and-Toews show for the fans, chirping each other about everything from their PR-mandated hairstyles to their infamous shouting matches, and Jonny smirks when she gets a little girl up at the microphone to agree that her French braid (tied off in Blackhawks colors) is much prettier than Pat’s gelled curls. After five years, she doesn’t even really have to think about slipping into the easy banter. It’s as much a routine as lacing her skates before a game. 

The meet-and-greets are always her favorite part of any promotional event, though, and the convention is no exception. She genuinely enjoys talking to fans, and she doesn’t mind that PR has scheduled her for the very end of the afternoon because they know people will stay for her. The first person in line is a young woman who introduces herself as Alisha. She’s wearing a red hijab to match her Toews jersey, but when Jonny smiles and says, “On the sweater, then?” she shakes her head and brings out a glossy print of –

That must have taken _forever_ , Jonny thinks, staring in mute fascination at the collage. She doesn’t exactly love the way she looks while she’s playing – like she’s either seen the world’s biggest spider or smelled the world’s biggest shit – but she’s secretly kind of charmed by how much people seem to love it. She’s seen the websites. The fans think she’s _adorable_.

“Sorry,” Alisha says sheepishly as Jonny scrawls her name across one corner. “I know it’s kind of weird.” There must be twenty different photos of Jonny’s face contorted into a series of increasingly ridiculous expressions. It’s an impressive effort. Besides, she’s definitely seen weirder, and she’s about to say so when Seabs, who’s sitting next to her at the table, grabs the print right out of her hands.

“No, no, this is brilliant,” he says fervently. “And I want one. I want _twelve_.” He sounds horrifyingly sincere.

“I’m going to make you do suicides for a week,” she threatens, but Alisha grins when Jonny thanks her for supporting the team, all traces of embarrassment gone. She decides Seabs is safe for the time being.

The next few encounters are less eventful. Most people want her to sign their Toews jerseys, though she also signs a couple of #88 sweaters and a handful with Sharp and Hossa and Keith written across the back. That’s fine – she can’t be everyone’s favorite player, and she tries to be just as friendly to those fans as to the ones wearing #19.

Sometimes people bring posters too, either fanmade like the collage or one of a dozen official prints licensed and sold at the convention itself. Jonny's seen a few already this year: the team in full uniform, an early rookie photo of her and Pat, Crow lunging sideways mid-block. She knows they have at least one in commemoration of their last Cup but she hasn't seen it yet. She expects it to be one of the whole team, hugging on the ice or maybe clustered around the Cup itself. 

She doesn't expect it to be Pat.

She remembers the instant this picture was taken with perfect clarity, Pat streaking down the ice bare-handed, gloves and stick left behind as he made a beeline for the Blackhawks' net, hollering the whole way. The awful moment, after all those white jerseys spilled over the bench to follow him, when Jonny thought the goal wasn't going to count, and the delayed euphoria when it _did_ , they'd _won_.

And she remembers the jealousy.

Jonny might have captained her team to the finals, but Kaner won them the Cup. Even being awarded the Conn Smythe couldn't ease the sting of that – she'd lost to him as a rookie, and now that she's a Stanley Cup champion she owes that to him as well. She feels sometimes like she's spent her entire career trying to prove she's earned her own place and failing, always failing, because she can't escape the crutch that is Patrick Kane.

That's what she remembers from winning.

She signs the poster on autopilot, and when the last fan leaves she wants to put her head down on the table and just pass out. The convention is as tiring as training camp in its own way, but she still goes out afterwards because that’s what it means to have the C on her chest. Everyone’s a bit punchy, not knowing whether all this fuss is going down for a season that might not happen, and she does her best to reassure them, buying shots for the rookies and distracting the older guys by asking about their wives and kids.

She wants to look at Duncs and say, _see? Not letting it affect the team_.

As soon as she gets home, though, it’s an entirely different story.

“Boys,” Dani says disgustedly, when Jonny calls to tell her about the most recent developments in the Ongoing Saga of Jonny’s Stupid Teammates – Dani’s name, not hers. Dani’s just graduated from a liberal arts college outside of Montreal, and this is her standard response to almost everything, but – she’s not wrong, Jonny thinks.

“Yeah,” she sighs. It’s not like she doesn’t have friends in Chicago – even if she’s currently not speaking to the one she spends the most time with – but she misses Dani like a phantom limb sometimes.

“You want me to go onto Blackhawks forums and post mean things about his tiny dick?” Dani offers. She would. They’ve been best friends for nearly two decades, and Dani had been fiercely protective well before the day Jonny announced she was entering the draft.

“I’m good.”

“Alright. Just say the word.” Dani’s laugh crackles through the speaker.

“No, it’d be unfair. The whole reason I’m pissed is because he’s being a childish asshole who needs to grow the fuck up. We’re a pro hockey team, not a frat.”

“Man, what a change,” Dani says. “Four months ago you couldn’t stop gushing –“

“I don’t gush,” Jonny protests.

“ _Gushing_ about how great Kaner was, how much he’d stepped up for the team when you were out with your concussion, how _delicious_ his shoulders looked when you made him drill face-offs –“

“You are a colossal liar and you need to _stop talking_.” Jonny groans into the sofa cushion when Dani just giggles.

“I’m just saying, J. It seems like a bit of a 180. And you know I’d never – but like, you said the thing about him hurting that girl was reported anonymously, and no one ever came forward, right?” Jonny makes a noise to indicate her agreement. “I mean, I’m not saying he _didn’t_ – but I’m pretty sure if I went on Google right now I could find fifty different guys claiming they’ve slept with you, and another fifty who would happily swear that you were a royal bitch when they tried to say hi at a club or something. We both know you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

Jonny nearly drops the phone. “Are you defending him?”

“No! I’m just saying, you know. Use your best judgment.”

The problem, Jonny thinks when she’s finally hung up, is that her judgment’s never been particularly good when it comes to Kaner.

**Interlude: 2007**

In the summer of 2007, two things happen that change Jonny’s life forever.

In May, Sidney Crosby is named as captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins. She is the first female captain of an NHL team, and the youngest one in history.

A month later, Patrick Kane goes first overall to the Chicago Blackhawks, and every giddy hope that had blossomed at the Penguins’ announcement comes crashing down around Jonny’s ears. She stares blindly at Kane smiling for the cameras and thinks, _fuck that_. Because the Blackhawks are _her_ team, even if every sports journalist in Chicago said they were desperate for taking a girl with their first round pick last year. She knows management wants a rookie to be the new face of the franchise, to lead the team to their first Cup in decades, and she’d thought, when Sid made captain, maybe…

But last year, the articles had all been ‘Blackhawks draft female prospect’. This year, people are already talking about their rising star.

After that, it’s obvious what she has to do. She ignores her mom’s disappointed, “We had a deal, Jeanne,” and submits her resignation to UND. Then she buys a one-way ticket to Chicago.

She isn’t going to let Patrick Kane take her team without a fight.

She arrives in training camp expecting – she doesn’t know what she’s expecting, actually, but it’s not being ambushed by Kane outside the rink, grinning at her from under a riotous mop of blond curls and holding out his hand for her to shake. “Pat Kane,” he says. “You ready for this?”

She takes his hand automatically. “Jeanne Toews. Are you?” 

Jonny blinks when Kane only laughs at that. Most teenage guys don’t appreciate being challenged by a girl, especially one who can squat their body weight. Kane just shifts to sling his arm around her shoulder – they’re almost exactly the same height – and says, “Hell yeah, I am. Nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

That, at least, is something they can agree on.

Training camp is a whole new level of exhausting. When the veterans joke about the draft picks being babies she can’t even argue because it’s true: all she wants to do is sleep and eat and then sleep some more. She nearly dozed off on the toilet the other day, and she’s been forcing herself to take showers because she’s legitimately worried about drowning in the tub. But Jonny didn’t get to where she is by slacking off, and so she’s still on the bike, legs burning, when Patrick walks into the weightroom on a Friday afternoon and shakes his head.

“I’m not sure if you’re inspiring or insane. Off the bike, Toews, a bunch of the guys wanna go out to celebrate before the last round of cuts.”

“No thanks,” Jonny huffs. Two more miles, and then she can hit the showers and go to bed. She watches the numbers tick upwards.

“C’mon,” Patrick insists. “We’ll wait for you to shower off and everything.”

“Not going out.” Not with _him_.

“Team bonding is important, you know,” he wheedles.

Irritated, she finally turns her head to look at him. He – might actually be disappointed. Weird.

She finishes her miles while Patrick props up the door, and waits until she’s almost done with her cooldown to say, “Bonding won’t matter if I don’t make the team.”

Patrick scoffs. “Bullshit. You’ve been lighting it up out there every day. They’d be stupid not to take you.”

Four years ago, Jonny’s coach had told her in no uncertain terms that while she was good enough to play with the boys at the juniors level, she’d never have the speed, bulk, or endurance to make it in the NHL.

“Rhéaume signed with the Lightning,” she’d insisted. “And I can get stronger.”

His reply had been blunt. “She’s a goalie. It’s different for them, because in the crease reflexes matter more than size, and there isn’t any real contact. You’re good for a girl, Toews, but no matter how good you are, nobody wants to see a girl getting checked into the boards – and what the fans don’t want, they don’t pay for. It might not be fair, but that’s how it is.”

Even at the time, she’d thought that was ridiculous. Now it’s more like a cruel joke. She led the NCAA in points during her year at UND, and she knows that given half a chance, she wouldn’t embarrass herself in the big leagues.

But what the fans don’t want, they don’t pay for.

The front office doesn’t know if Jonny can sell jerseys or fill seats. She’s a financial gamble, and the Hawks are a business. They won’t offer her even a minimum-salary contract unless she makes herself invaluable on the ice.

“So I’m doing well in drills,” she says shortly. “Scrimmages against people who are going easy because they don’t want to break the rookies before the pre-season’s even started. That’s not enough. I need to be better, because if I’m not the best –”

“Then you’re a liability,” Patrick finishes, rueful. “Yeah. You think I haven’t heard that over and over again, at my size?”

Like he’s got any need to worry. “You’re on the small side, yeah, and you need to pass more, but you’re fast and your stickhandling more than makes up for it.” She’s seen the tapes, but it’s different actually playing with him. He’s good, _really_ good, and she might not like him but she’s capable of being the bigger person here.

(Literally. She’s pretty sure that with his hair lying flat, Patrick’s shorter than she is.)

“And you’ve got tits and a vag and need to be less of a bossy asshole,” Patrick counters, and then flushes like he’s embarrassed to be so crude to her face. Which is hilarious, because: hello, locker rooms. “But you’re the best center I’ve ever played with.”

It takes her a second to come back with a dry, “You can’t have played with very good ones, then,” when her first instinct is to ask, disbelieving, _am I really_? Jonny doesn’t need his approval, she knows she’s good at what she does, but – he’s played wing to current and future NHLers. Kane doesn’t think she’s ‘good for a girl’ – he thinks she’s the best center out of all of them.

“Nah, you’re just better.” He grins, still pink-cheeked. “Your hockey sense is crazy – it’s like you know where everyone on the ice is going before they do. _And_ you’re like a thousand times better at checking than I’ll ever be, which doesn’t seem fair.”

“Thanks,” she mutters. She might be blushing a little too, but it’s – it means something, hearing him say that. She didn’t think it would, but it does.

“Soooo,” he says, stretching his lips around the word, “You should come out with us, because like I said, they’d be stupid not to take you. And I know they’re not stupid, because they were all after this jelly.” He does a goofy little shimmy in celebration.

She can’t help but snicker, and, well, it’s not like she knows anyone else in Chicago. If – when – she makes the team, Jonny reasons, it’ll be good for her to already be friendly with the guys. “Yeah, alright.” Pat whoops and punches the air, shooing her off towards the showers like she might change her mind.

She guesses that makes them friends in his eyes. He starts trailing after her like David used to, back when he was young enough to think everything his big sister did was unbelievably cool, and just like with David, nothing she does changes his mind. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times she screams at him on the bench to pass more, shoving poor Bicks out of the way to get in his face about it. He just swears at her and then _does_ , dishing out sweet passes right to her tape, and between the two of them, the puck hits the back of the net again, and again, and again. His talent would kill her, except for the fact that he always seems to play best when she’s right there telling him how to be better. Loudly.

“Already gunning for captain, I see,” Bur chirps as she’s coming back to the bench following a particularly vocal showing during a 5-on-3 drill.

Jonny lifts a shoulder, noncommittal, but Pat snorts and chirps back, “Like Miss Serious here wouldn’t do a better job with the C than any of you losers.”

“Better than you, anyways. Jesus, kid, it’s like you have no ambition.” Bur mock-sighs, shaking his head. He thumps their helmets affectionately before going over the boards for his own turn at the drill. 

Pat makes a face at his retreating back. Jonny has to elbow him twice to get his attention so she can start explaining how, exactly, they could be faster on that powerplay maneuver.

When they both make the final cut Pat throws his arms around her and yells right in her ear, “That’s hockey, baby!” She doesn’t even punch his ribs to make him let go, because his arms tight around her are the only thing keeping her from shaking apart with a wild happiness so huge it feels impossible.

She’s going to be playing in the NHL.

And she does. The empty seats in the UC during their home games don’t bother her – it’s why they’re here in the first place. The few thousand die-hard Chicago hockey fans have survived a half-century Cup drought; at this point, they’ve resigned themselves to the fact that their team’s hopes are resting on the shoulders of – well, the most flattering description she’s heard so far has been ‘the shrimp and the girl’.

It doesn’t matter what they call her. Jonny looks at the stands after a three-game losing streak at the end of October and says, quiet and fierce, “We gotta fill this place up.”

Patrick’s voice is hoarse and raw from all the post-game interviews. “You think we can?” After weeks of being touted as the saviors of Blackhawks hockey, the losses are hitting them both hard, and he doesn’t have her nine-game point streak to fall back on when the press is being particularly bloodthirsty. She should be happier about that last part, proof that she’s fucking good at what she does with or without Patrick Kane, but mostly, Jonny wants to prove that they can _win_.

She thinks Pat understands that.

“Yeah,” she promises. “You and me, we’re bringing hockey back to Chicago.”

He sags against her with a small sigh, like her words are enough to ease the sting of the loss into something more bearable. She’s not really thinking when she leans into the press of their shoulders, supporting his weight.

Jonny likes the easy affection that comes with physical contact. But after the time she’d had to deck a boy who thought all her hugging and hair tousling meant she was flirting with him, she’s mostly trained herself out of the habit of touching her teammates off the ice. Here in Chicago, where she doesn’t know anyone but the Hawks, she’s starved for touch. Even the married guys are hesitant to get too handsy once she’s out of her pads, though whether that’s because they’re worried about it being taken the wrong way or because they’re straight-up uncomfortable having a girl on the team is anyone’s guess.

Patrick is the only one who doesn’t seem to care one way or another. Jonny’s still deciding if that makes him willfully uncaring or just plain oblivious, but in this moment, his arm a solid line against her own, she can’t find it in herself to pull away.

They’re already teammates and – she’ll begrudgingly admit – friends. But this Patrick, the one who questions whether they can make Chicago a hockey town but doesn’t raise an eyebrow when she says they’ll be doing it together?

The NHL won’t know what hit it.

**August**

The convention ends, and the front office seems pleased – at least, Bowman gives her an approving nod when he catches her eye on the last day, so she figures she can’t have done too bad of a job acting like everything’s normal. Pat doesn’t try to talk to her again, and Jonny is resolutely not disappointed.

She finally goes home, but hanging out at the lake and gorging herself on her mom’s nutritionist-approved cooking isn’t as satisfying as it normally would be. Intellectually, she knows that the lockout is almost inevitable. It’s just that, down to her bones, Jonny’s not capable of giving up on hockey. Personal feelings aside, as long as she’s captain, her team’s not going to slack off until the league bars the door to the rink, and neither is she. She’s already booked her flight back, anticipating the arrival of the prospects, and she starts getting twitchy as the days count down, as though if she can only return sooner, she can stave off the lockout entirely.

The first text comes in mid-August. Dayna has been on a big organic kick lately, and apparently Seabs made the mistake of telling her about Jonny’s forays into homegrown vegetables. _HELP_ _IM DROWNING IN DIRT_ , he sends, so Jonny calls Dayna up and they spend a good two hours discussing planters and fertilizer and which of the Chicago farmers’ markets is the best (Green City, they agree, but only when you don’t have to deal with the weekend crowd). Afterwards, Seabs texts her a string of beaming emojis. 

Like that’s a sign, the entirety of the Chicago Blackhawks roster suddenly seems to have problems only their captain can fix. Hammer sends: _training agility :( drills?_ Bicks demands that they trade recipes for protein shakes, because _yours always taste less like powdery shit than everyone else’s_. Shaw has to buy tampons for his girlfriend – what brand? _wtf ASK HER_ is Jonny’s only response to _that_ one, but she suggests Hammer try a couple of different exercises for balance and fast-twitch muscle groups, and tells Bicks that maybe if he didn’t have such a strong aversion to avocado he’d find that his protein shakes tasted better.

There are one or two real issues to be dealt with – Handzus is moving back from San Jose but barely has the time to sleep thanks to his new baby boy, let alone make rental arrangements. She sets him up with the name and number of the real estate agent who’d helped her back in ’07, and wonders how soon is too soon to custom-order a Hawks onesie for little Tomas.

Crow calls her without any problem at all, only a long and convoluted tale about accidentally signing up to take a nude yoga class at the local community center. The story is so downright weird that he’s got to be making it up – but then again, Jonny thinks, he’s a goalie. The bar for weird is set really fucking high.

She’s aware that she’s being handled, and maybe it’s a sign that she’s been hanging around emotionally stunted athletes for too long but she’s kind of touched under her irritation. The guys are trying to help, in their own strange fashion. All the texts and phone calls and emails are a reminder: they’re on her team, _hers_ in a way that doesn’t change no matter what happens to the season.

**September**

She flies back to Chicago thinking that she’s ready to hear the worst, but the day they announce that training camp has been delayed, she slams out of her apartment with her keys and a baseball cap and just – runs. She pushes all the explosive power of her calves and quads and hamstrings into huge, driving strides, veering around corners like they’re opposing D-men, not even caring where she’s going until she winds up in front of the UC, staring up at a banner of her own face blown up to gigantic proportions. Another handful of steps takes her to the players’ entrance, and she leans her forehead against the sun-warmed metal, trying to catch her breath.

She hasn’t cried since she was seventeen and watching Sidney Crosby get drafted, and she’s not going to now. Opening her eyes, she’s not surprised to discover that the tight ache under her breastbone isn’t sadness – it’s fury. All she’s ever wanted has been to play hockey, and sometimes she feels like the whole fucking world is out to stop her. Coaches. Fans. Even her own stupid traitorous body.

And now Gary fucking Bettman.

She slams her open palms against the door just to feel it rattle, then pulls out her cell.

“Hey, Sid,” she says, starting the slow walk back to her building. “Listen, I know they’re forming a players’ committee for the negotiations, and I want in.”

She sees the future spill out before her like a play on the ice: practice time at the rink for the guys who live in Chicago, conditioning schedules for everyone else, hotel reservations and plane tickets and fighting this battle week by week because you can diagram the perfect play but you can’t ever know with complete certainty what the other team will do.

For instance: she’s not expecting the text from Duncs a few weeks later that says _boys down in rockford need a motivational speech right about now_ , but she gets it, so she goes. She can do that kind of thing now that her schedule isn’t set by chartered jets and sold-out arenas.

PR isn’t doing anything official, shut down just like the rest of the front office, but some of the rookies are surgically fused to their Twitter accounts. There’s always the chance cameras will turn up. She snags the grey tapered slacks from her favorite game-day suit and a black polo, and two hours later she’s pulling up in front of the Riverview Ice House, where Marsha Sillman is waiting for her.

Officially, Marsha is the secretary for the guy who runs Business Operations. Unofficially, she is supreme overlord of the IceHogs’ schedule, and anyone who’s spent time on the team talks about her in tones of mingled fear and respect.

She’s also barely five feet tall and looks like Jonny’s grandmother. “It’s so good of you to come visit the boys,“ she says, patting Jonny’s elbow just like Grand-mère used to. “I thought it might be a nice surprise for them, they’re already inside dressing for practice.”

“Visitor for you,” Marsha calls out a few minutes later, rapping briskly on the locker room before pushing the door open.

“ _Tazer_?”

“Surprise,” Jonny says blandly, and promptly gets mobbed. Shaw leads the charge, barreling into her so enthusiastically that it’s more like a collision than a hug until Leds and Boller and Krugs close in with fist bumps and friendly slaps on the back. Everyone else is hanging back, shy or intimidated or downright confused, but Pirri is hovering around the perimeter of their huddle looking tentatively pleased, and she spots a few other familiar faces starting to smile in the split second before she’s covered in several hundred pounds of half-dressed hockey players.

“Aren’t you going to let the poor girl get changed?”

Jonny peers over Shawzy’s shoulder at Marsha, still waiting patiently by the big double doors to the room. “Changed?”

Strictly speaking, she’s not allowed to be lacing up with anyone except the Blackhawks. Mutt’s living up to his nickname, though, giving her the biggest puppy eyes she’s seen since the last photoshoot for Bick’s Pits, and Saad startles her when he says, “Oh – would you?” with such hope that she’d feel positively Scrooge-ish refusing.

“Mr. Dent has made it clear that you’re welcome to assist with practice today,” Marsha cuts in smoothly. _Head coach_ , Bollig mouths at her – and fine, Jonny’s only human.

“Yeah, okay,” she says gruffly, and just like that she’s exchanging slacks for tracksuit bottoms and pulling a fleece on over her polo. Marsha, who is as terrifyingly competent as the rumors suggest, has somehow produced skates and thick wool socks. Sure, Jonny’s kitted out more like a coach than a player, but she takes two easy circuits around the rink while the guys are finishing up with their gear, sinking in low over her haunches and relishing the stretch. Ice is ice.

She has to remind herself that it’s an accomplishment to have played in so many NHL games that she can’t be sent down without a waiver. Getting annoyed because that accomplishment means she can’t play pro hockey is both petty and, more importantly, ultimately pointless.

 _…._ Damn it.

Still, she’s not taking it out on the Rockford players when she starts barking instructions at them. She’s here to _help_ , not to sit by and watch while they make mistakes. Speaking of which: “ _Kruger!_ Fucking keep your head up and find your fucking line!”

Ted Dent starts laughing silently when Krugs flinches after missing the pass to his left winger and tries to hide behind Leddy, but he’s happy to run the play again when she skates over to ask. Some of these guys are going to be on the Hawks this season, God and Gary Bettman willing, and they need to be making the most of every practice if they’re going to keep up.

“Better,” she acknowledges, after they’ve run it twice more. “Eyes up just like that, Krugs, you’re fucking golden.” 

“She’s _trying_ to kill us, right?” she hears him groan to Shaw as the next line moves into position at center ice, but his expression is faintly satisfied.

Shaw’s game is harder to offer advice on. He digs deep in front of the net for the kind of gritty, physical hockey that Jonny respects but doesn’t play, so she sticks to punching his shoulder encouragingly when he grins at her during a Gatorade break. Leddy and the other D-men are anchoring the blue line like they’re made of steel, though, stripping the puck from the Hogs’ forwards during possession drills as often as not, so there’s no shortage of guys angling for tips and suggestions.

“You’re good at hanging on to the puck against the boards,” she tells Saad, who fidgets slightly at the compliment. “But you keep forgetting that you have other options. Don’t overthink it and wait for them to chase you down when you can be playing two steps ahead.” She tips her head towards the offensive zone as Morin dumps the puck ahead of the approaching D-men, sweeps around the net, and is back in time to fire a one-touch over Hutton’s shoulder, completely unchallenged. “Fucking beauty!” Morin pumps his arm in grinning acknowledgement, and Saader nods seriously, taking it in like gospel.

She smacks every fist that’s offered to her as the IceHogs head back to the lockers. Marsha’s there with her pants and shoes, which Jonny ignores in favor of turning to the room. “Some of you probably hoped for something different this season, and I don’t blame you,” she says bluntly. A few shoulders slump at the reminder. “But you know what?”

“What,” Shawzy mutters. Jonny glares at him.

“You should all be goddamn proud anyways,” she says forcefully, meeting their eyes one by one so they know she means it. “Because I’ve seen you play, and the best hockey in the West is happening right here, right now.”

So then of course they have to pile on for another round of hugs, sweat-stink and all. She wrinkles her nose, thumps all the backs and shoulders and butts she can reach, and tells Bollig, low and quiet, “Don’t let the boys give up on Chicago just yet, eh?”

Saying it out loud makes it real. Jonny’s never given up on hockey before. She’s not giving up on it now. 

**Interlude: 2012**

Jonny’s not stupid. She knows what a concussion feels like, and this? This is definitely a concussion. She throws up three times the night they play San Jose, heaving up bile even as her body demands more calories than she’s able to keep down.

A professional athletics team is an efficient machine, and a lot of people make a lot of money by ensuring their charges stay that way. The Blackhawks employ trainers and coaches, nutritionists and doctors and one very discreet psychologist who takes calls seven days a week.

All of which means that Jonny isn’t exactly lacking for people to tell about her concussion – none of whom can do jack shit to actually fix it.

If they could’ve, Sidney Crosby would have played more than two weeks’ worth of games in the past year.

Every game Malkin steps onto the ice as the starting center means more articles about how he plays better in Sid’s absence, louder rumblings about how maybe it’s time for the Pens to replace their overly-fragile captain with someone tougher. Having a Cup ring isn’t enough. Having a record-breaking season isn’t enough. (Having a dick apparently is.)

The Hawks aren’t the Pens, either, and there’s no intimidatingly competent Russian to step in as first-line center if Jonny gets put on IR. Her team needs her right where she is, not sitting alone in a dark room during their run-up to playoffs.

For all she might try and pretend that it’s a calculated gamble, though, Jonny’s pretty good at being honest with herself. There’s only one reason why she’s keeping this secret: she wants to play. Hockey is not just what she does, it’s who she _is_ , a hockey player to her last breath.

Besides, nobody gets to the NHL without one or two practical lessons on playing through injuries.

She thinks she can handle it. She thinks she can handle it until the morning she finds herself crawling to the bathroom – literally crawling, because if she tries to stand the room spins and her knees wobble. That’s when she calls Q. 

Jonny doesn’t tell him exactly how bad her dizzy spells have gotten, but Q’s been involved in this sport long enough to pick up on what she’s not saying. “We’re telling the press it’s an upper-body,” he says gruffly. “Should help keep ‘em off our backs.”

Off _your_ back, he means. The nine consecutive dropped games have made them an easy target. (Jonny is always an easy target.)

“Tell the guys it’s minor symptoms only,” she insists, because that many losses in a row are demoralizing enough without finding out your captain’s brain is so much scrambled mush.

“They’ll wonder why you aren’t coming to practices,” he tells her, matter-of-fact.

“No, they won’t.” Even if all the grit and stubbornness in the world won’t keep her steady on her blades, she can damn well sit on the bench at practice for her team’s sake. 

This plan works for approximately 48 hours, which is the exact amount of time it takes for Jonny to drive her car head-first into a steel support beam on the way to the UC. Her Mercedes doesn’t stand a chance.

Neither does her claim that her head is ‘not that bad, really’. “We just want to take all possible precautions against it getting worse,” one of the team docs tells her kindly. “That means the kind of rest you can’t get at the rink. Do you have someone to take you home?”

“I will,” comes Duncs’ voice from the doorway. “She good to go?”

Dr. Costas nods. “Jeanne, just remember – anything that strains your eyes, stop doing it. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, sit or lie down. The Neurontin might make you drowsy, but that’s okay. Stay hydrated, stay well-rested, and keep us informed if anything changes.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says.

She stands, and Duncs moves to stand at her shoulder before she can take a step. He paces her all the way out to the parking lot without saying a word. He’s silent during the drive, too, all of his attention seemingly focused on going as smooth as possible even though she can see him white-knuckling the wheel of his sedan. She gets chirped a lot for her mass-murderer crazy eyes, but the look Duncs gives her when she has to fumble her keys to unlock her front door is a thousand times worse, crashing waves of disappointment and anger and hurt roiling behind his eyes.

“You should have told us,” he says, very, very quietly, and shuts the door behind him as he goes. The words rattle around in her head until she finally falls asleep.

The voicemail from TJ that she wakes up to is easier to cope with, three solid minutes of profanity opening with, “You motherfucking _moron_.” They’re not friends the way she and Dani are, but he’s held her hair while she puked into the bushes, so she knows he means _you scared me_. They played the Blues right before her symptoms got worse, too, which is the reason why she calls him back at 3AM, mutters, “Sorry, man,” into the answering machine, and hopes he hears _it’s not your fault_.

Her mom doesn’t bother cursing, just says, “I was so worried, Jeanne.” She sounds teary, and Jonny’s spilling out promises to be more careful before she even realizes what she’s saying. Andrée Gilbert could teach a master class on guilt-trips. She’s also known Jonny for her entire life, and she doesn’t push about coming down to Chicago when Jonny turns her down, only says, “You’ll let me know if you need anything, ma chérie?”

“Of course, Maman,” Jonny responds dutifully. “I love you.”

What she needs is to be un-concussed. What she needs is to be back in her skates.

Jonny’s never felt that what she needs and what she wants are all that different. Some of her teammates have struggled with that – mostly on the junior level, to be fair, but every team’s got the one player who craves full-fat ice cream or hates putting in time on the bike. Not her. Jonny’s willing to push herself until she drops. Only – she also knows that nothing good comes from ignoring your doctors when they start talking about the next hit being a career-ender. To want hockey, and need to stay away? That’s a new experience, and one she doesn’t much care for.

She sleeps a lot the first few days, drugs and dizziness knocking her out for twelve hours at a stretch. As for the other twelve…Alone in a dark room after all, she thinks grimly, and it’s _really fucking boring_. She spends forty-five minutes dicing and mashing strawberries and spinach and Greek yogurt into a protein shake one morning because the noise of the blender makes her head hurt, and when she’s done it’s only 10:30.

Fuck.

She wants a hug, and also to punch something. 

Plain bad timing is her excuse, then, when she hears a soft knock on the door and opens it already scowling. Sharpy, tense-faced with worry, is standing on the other side. Over his shoulder, Kaner has his arms crossed like the world’s smallest bouncer.

“Unless you’re here to tell me that they’re giving you the C, I don’t want to hear it,” she says coldly, and goes to close the door in their faces.

Sharpy sticks his foot in before she can. He’s remarkably trusting that she won’t just slam it onto his leg – but then, she’d never risk hurting one of her guys. Even the obnoxious ones. “Nobody’s taking your C, Jeanne,” Sharpy yells through the gap.

“Then your captain wants you to move your fucking foot, Sharp!”

“Enough,” Pat snaps, shoving past Sharpy and into her condo to get up in her face. “You can’t do this again. You _can’t_ ,” he repeats, voice rising. “If there’s a problem, you tell the coaches, and if you can’t tell the coaches, then you tell us, because we’re not losing you to a goddamn _car crash_ like fucking Kharlamov –”

“What he’s trying to say,” Sharpy interrupts, wrapping an arm around Pat’s head to stifle his shouting, “Is that you’re not doing any of us any good by keeping secrets.”

“Whatever,” Jonny mutters. “I won’t do it again.” Even Sharpy looks skeptical at that.

“Promise,” Patrick bites out. “The next time we ask what’s wrong, you don’t lie. We’ll keep it secret, but you _tell us_ , so we can watch out for you.”

Suddenly she feels exhausted, so weighed down with guilt and frustration that she can barely get her spine to stay upright. “Fine.”

Kaner insists she swear on her Cup ring because, as he says darkly, “At least you care about the Cup enough to be honest.”

“I care about _our team_ ,” Jonny insists, stung.

“Well, the team’s not fucking _going_ anywhere without you!”

“Whoa, Peeks,” Sharpy says. His eyebrows are going to take off if they get any higher. “Take it down a notch. You too, Captain Knucklehead.”

And, okay – when they finally leave, and Jonny can slump onto her sofa and stare at the blank TV screen, she is maybe – _maybe_ – willing to admit that the Patricks have a point. Losing three games in a row isn’t great for morale, but neither is finding out your captain’s been lying to you.

She knows why they’re mad, even, why Duncs was so cold after her appointment and why a lot of the guys sound kind of betrayed in their ‘get-better-soon’ messages. She’d be pissed if it was one of them putting his own health on the line and lying to her about it for anything short of the Cup Finals.

They think she doesn’t trust them, which is ridiculous. Of course her team has her back. The question has never been if they will support her when she asks, the question is whether she’s allowed to ask at all.

(It’s not much of a question. See again: Sidney Crosby.) 

Time passes. Hours blur together into a haze of migraines and the soft lilting sound of all the French audiobooks she could get her hands on, set against the stark and inexorable tally of days: two games missed. Five. Seven. The guys go on a short roadie that ends with a total bloodbath courtesy of the Blues, and she watches the post-game long enough for TJ to give an interview in which he says, _“_ The Hawks were missing a top-notch player in Jeanne Toews, and I think our PK unit was able to take advantage of that.” He means to be kind, but the words make her sick. 

Pat must have seen the interview too, because he calls her at an obscene hour the next morning demanding that she wake up, they’re going out for breakfast.

She hangs up on him. Her phone buzzes, stills, then buzzes again.

_god u loser_

_lunch at noon then and dont make me bring out the big guns_

Lunch is a terrible idea. She has been explicitly banned from driving, absolutely refuses to be seen in Kaner’s obnoxious Hummer, and on bad days can barely cope with the sound of her doorbell – she’s had to tell her meal delivery service to knock instead.

Kaner can bring out all the guns he likes, she decides. She’s not moving.

Ten minutes past noon, Pat starts knocking. He gets as far as _tap-taptap_ , _tap-taptap_ before she levers herself out of bed and goes to open the door.  
  
“You’re a dick,” she announces grumpily to the person on the other side, and then slaps a hand over her own mouth. “ _Maman_?”

“Hello, sweetheart,” Andrée says, sweeping in for a hug while Pat smirks at them from the hall. 

“Hi,” Jonny says reflexively, hugging back. “Uh.”

Andrée laughs. “Patrick said you would never admit that you’d been having a rough time since the accident, and I had to agree that did sound like my daughter.”

Translation: Kaner is a fucking snitch. Jonny only resists giving him the finger because her mom has eyes at the back of her head and would definitely know.

Pat claps his hands gleefully. “So, lunch? My treat.”

They wind up getting a table in the quiet back room of Jonny’s favorite sushi place, where Andrée immediately excuses herself to the bathroom ‘to freshen up after the flight.’

“One day you’re going to realize that Oshie is a dumbass and you need to stop listening to him,” Kaner says without preamble. “Also, in case you didn’t notice, we won the three before that, so calm your tits, alright? The franchise isn’t going to spontaneously combust the instant you miss a game or two.”

“What about eight?” she mutters sullenly. 

Pat groans. “You’re like a Dr. Phil special on trust issues, I swear to God. We’ve got this.” He kicks at her under the table until she looks up from her menu to catch his eyes. “Somewhere deep in that repressed Canadian brain, you know we’ve got this.”

She does know. They’ll play their hardest for her – actually, she thinks, they’d better play their hardest no matter what, because slackers don’t win the Stanley Cup.

But – “I’m not worried about the team,” she says, and, fuck, this is why she didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t mean to say that out loud, but Pat has a way of getting under her skin. 

“Bullshit,” he says immediately. “You think we’re all a bunch of babies who can’t tie their skates without you to hold our hands, and while I admit I’ve had my suspicions about Sharpy –” 

Jonny purses her lips tight. If he’s made the wrong assumption she’s not going to correct him. She _is_ worried about the guys, sure, but mostly in that nebulous way she always worries about them – someone has to buy Kit-Kats for Hossa after big wins and make sure that the goalies don’t beat themselves up after losses, look the other way when Duncs slips the rookies beer and carry condoms in case one of the unmarried guys is both lucky and unprepared when they go out.

There are other people who could do that, just like there are other people who could center the first line and wear the C. Jonny’s spent the last five years giving everything to this team, she’s never going to like thinking about someone taking her place.

But the idea that her career could be dying a slow throttled death while she sits around waiting stupidly for a recovery that will never come? That’s _terrifying._ She’s only 23 years old, and she is suddenly, viscerally aware that this might be it. She might never play professional hockey again.

Pat snaps out of his ramblings to narrow his eyes suspiciously. “You’re really out of it. Is everything –”

No, Jonny thinks helplessly. No, no, _no._ She’ll wind up telling him everything.

She jolts when someone squeezes her shoulder, but it’s only her mom, back from the restroom and leaning in to say, “Have you two made a decision yet? I passed the bar on my way back and the fresh tuna looks absolutely delicious.”

Grateful, Jonny says, “Tuna sounds good,” and the conversation turns to whether the inclusion of deep-fried shrimp knocks sushi rolls off the diet plan.

Andrée goes back to Winnipeg after the weekend, but she must have deputized Patrick or something because he. Keeps. Calling.

“ _Who’s your favorite American now_?” he bellows into the phone after they beat the Blues in a shootout. When Bolland scores in the first ten seconds against the Stars, he moans, “Now Q’s never going to stop riding our asses about starting quick,” from a hotel room in Dallas.

And: “Ugh, just fucking talk to each other already,” which confuses her until she hears the soft buzz of the lockers and then Duncs’ quiet, “Hey.”

In the background, Kaner shouts, “Stop sulking, you dipshits!”

“Hey,” she says, feeling caught off-guard. “Uh, congratulations on the four assists, man, that was fucking incredible.”

“Well, the Blue Jackets,” Duncs says dryly back. “You know the worst part’s always –”

“That goddamn cannon,” she agrees, shaking her head even though he can’t see her.

“Yeah,” Duncs says. “Hey, press is here. You watching the game from home tomorrow?”

“Planning on it.” Like she’d miss them playing the Canucks. Watching her boys beat up on Vancouver is the next best thing to doing it herself.

“I’ll get in a hit or two on your behalf, then, eh,” he says, like he’s read her mind. “Bye, Tazer.”

Once he’s hung up, she texts Pat, _youre the dipshit_.

He texts back, _ur welcome_

If Pat’s trying to distract her, though, it’s not working. Not for long, anyways. She keeps getting cleared to skate and then relapsing and it’s worse, almost, than thinking she’ll never skate at all because she _can_...right before the exertion knocks her flat on her ass again.

She hates it. She hates feeling sad and angry and scared all the time, and she hates that hockey is the thing that’s hurting her because she can’t give it up. She can’t say it’s not worth it, wouldn’t trade a minute of agony and indecision for the roar of the Vancouver crowd when they won gold, the solid weight of the Cup held high in her arms.

The third time she joins practice and goes home nauseous and half-blind with headaches, he calls her up and just sits on the line while she feels her heartbeat pulsing in her skull. “When we re-signed, we said we’d be Blackhawks for life, you remember?” She does. They’d spent a long time talking with Brisson first, individually and together, and Kaner’s hackles had gone up every time a reporter insinuated that Jonny’s offer might be lower than his. “I want matching contracts,” he’d demanded finally, “And if they’re not going to pay Jonny like she deserves then I’m not fucking signing at all.”

Brisson must have noticed the murderous light in her eyes, because he’d smiled at them both nice and easy. “They’ll sign Jeanne on her own merits, Patrick, but don’t think I don’t see you angling for those captain’s wages.”

Kaner had frozen for a split second and then laughed, righteous anger melting away like it’d never existed at all. “You know it, man.”

She’d punched him afterwards anyways, hard enough to leave a bruise purpling on the meat of his bicep.

“ _Ouch_ , fuck, I get it, okay,” he’d grumbled, rubbing his arm. “You can fight your own battles.”

But the front office agreed to matching contracts without hesitation, and when the ink was drying Pat had sighed and stretched and said, “You and me, Tazer. Brought hockey back to Chi-town and we’re fucking keeping it here, okay?”

Which is all well and good, but doesn’t exactly explain why he’s bringing it up now, three years and a concussion later. “So?”

“So,” Pat says, gently mocking. “You’re a Blackhawk. Not for the next six months, not for the next ten years. For _life_.”

Oh, Jonny thinks. That’s right.

No matter what, this is who she is.

**October**

It should be the start of the season. Instead, Jonny spends more time in blouses than in jerseys, and loathes every minute of it. She’s been shuttling back and forth between negotiations in New York and organizing informal practices in Chicago, and she can feel herself wearing thin. She knows some of the other guys have been fielding offers from European teams, and a whole wave of Russians have retreated to the KHL. She doesn’t blame the guys who sign overseas, of course – she’s spending frankly ridiculous amounts of time beating up punching bags and pretending they’re Bettman – but leaving would feel too much like quitting, like admitting that even though she has Olympic gold and the Stanley fucking Cup under her belt, she doesn’t have what it takes to bring her team home again.

When Bur calls to invite her to the charity game he’s organizing, she can’t help but think that she doesn’t _deserve_ to play, not when she’s part of the reason everyone else still can’t. If she was better, more persuasive, maybe…

She still says yes. Jonny’s given up her life for hockey. She’s been selfish and thoughtless and just plain stupid, but she would do it all again to get a stick in her hands and skates on her feet. 

Even being told that she’ll be on a line with Patrick isn’t enough to make her regret it. It’s been nearly six months since their last official game together. They’ll have an excuse, if the tension between them makes their playing a little awkward, for dropped passes and missed goals. Frankly, she’s kind of expecting it, all the way up until they step onto the ice.

Instead, they put up points like they’re playing the Cup final instead of a charity game. Patrick scores four goals on her wing. _Someone_ (she’s not naming names, but he wears #10 and has stupid hair) has insisted on their line doing a Dirty Dancing celly “in Patrick solidarity!” if she scores a goal of her own, which she does.

She almost thinks to make up another celly on the spot to get out of it, but she’s forgotten that Bur’s one of the match organizers. The whole arena starts to holler when the opening lines come crooning over the loudspeakers and Sharpy gives her the Swayze nod. There’s nothing for it, then, but to drop her stick and sprint across the ice towards her two wingers. She leaps. There’s a split second where she thinks she’s going to crash, and then Kaner’s hands are solid on her hips as he boosts her into the air. Sharpy tangles his gloves in the shoulders of her jersey, sharing her weight, and Jonny gives into the screams and the laughter, throws her hands out wide like she’s flying.

The crowd goes _crazy_.

Jonny salutes the audience with her stick as she skates back towards the bench, adrenaline still crackling underneath her skin. It wouldn’t even matter that she and Pat were fighting, she thinks, if only they could keep playing. Between the boards, everything comes easy. 

It’s been forty-two days since the lockout began.

By Halloween, she’s back in New York for the next round of talks. She’s travel-weary, just about ready to crash, when Sid knocks on the hotel room door. She’s bearing gifts: a six-pack in one hand and a king-sized bag of candy in the other, and Jonny lets her in without a word. She knows Brisson’s been trying to get Sid a contract in Magnitogorsk. She also knows that with Sid’s injury history, there’s no way the KHL will take her.

Sid has a hollow look in her eyes, one Jonny recognizes. Hockey-starved. She saw it every day in the mirror while she was recovering from her concussion. Sid says, “Thought we deserved it.”

Beer and chocolate are about as far from her nutrition plan as Jonny can get, but screw it – Sid’s right. Jonny grabs one of the cans and pops it open. “Trick-or-fucking-treat,” she toasts grimly, and chugs.

Even at the pace they set, three beers apiece wouldn’t normally be enough to get them wasted. But halfway through her second can, Jonny hears Sid’s breath hitch and knows, without looking, that she’s started to cry, silent and miserable. Sid’s not exactly the cuddling sort, but Jonny’s pretty sure they’d kick her out of Canada if she let _Sidney Crosby_ have a breakdown in a shitty hotel room in New York without doing anything. If that’s not a good reason to break out the minibar liquor, Jonny doesn’t know what is.

So she’s pretty drunk and more than slightly sugar high when her phone buzzes with an incoming text.

_im signing with ehc biel_

_leaving in two weeks_

_dont go_ , Jonny texts back, or tries to. She doesn’t even look to see who it’s from. She’s just tired of people leaving because she’s not good enough to make it so they can stay.

She makes herself down a bottle of Gatorade before she falls asleep, but while she’s not hungover the next morning she feels kind of sick anyways. There are a _lot_ of wrappers strewn around her hotel room, though Sid seems to have stumbled back to her own. Jonny’s too busy figuring out how she’s going to fit an extra hour on the bike to look at her phone. When she finally unlocks it after her workout and shower, she’s a little thrown by the sheer number of notifications.

_wtf_

_no, really WHAT THE FUCK_

_you dont get to tell me not to go_

_this is some passive aggressive bullshit_

_im not staying here without hockey so you can keep up the fucking silent treatment for another three months_

The last text is from an hour ago.

_alksdjfkldjf YOU ARE JUST PROVING MY POINT_

She scrolls up through the conversation history and – oh. Apparently, in addition to eating her weight in Twix bars, she also drunk texted Kaner.

Maybe it’s excessive to catch the next flight from LaGuardia to Buffalo, but what the hell – negotiations don’t resume until Friday so it’s not like she doesn’t have the time. She debates for a minute about whether it’s worth the hassle of renting a car at the airport when there’s a line of cabs right outside, but discretion wins out. She’s alone when she drives up to Patrick’s oversized house.

Kaner’s always had an ego to make up for his stature and _8888_ is just about the only password he ever uses. She punches in the code at the gate and leaves her car parked at the end of the long driveway. The doorbell, she notices, is as ostentatious as the rest of the mansion, and she presses it harder than she probably needs to.

Jonny’s just about ready to give up and try his parents’ house when the door swings open to reveal her winger, sweaty and clearly mid-workout. “Jeez, Jess, I told you –” He catches sight of her and stops, mouth gaping open unattractively.

She says, “Hi, Pat.”

“What are you doing here.” His voice is flat, no hint of the anger that had colored his texts.

“I didn’t mean to send that text last night.”

He looks at her incredulously. “And you flew all the way up here just to say that?”

“You should go to Biel if you want. It’s a good opportunity, and I didn’t want you to think –” She breaks off, frustrated.

“What?” Patrick asks, expression ugly. “Didn’t want me to think you’d finally caved and forgiven me?” When she doesn’t respond, he throws his hands in the air. “ _Seriously_? How are you still mad about this?” 

She’s tried so hard to keep her emotions in check. But she’s so furious, suddenly, at Bettman and the lockout and Patrick all at once, and something in her breaks.

“Because,” she snaps, “Every woman who wants to play hockey in the Show, _every single one of them_ is going to think twice about submitting her name for the draft when people say that Patrick Kane hits women and gets away with it.”

Pat looks like he’s been slammed up against the boards without padding. “What? I – Jonny, I _didn’t_.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

He shrinks under her stare, but he’s still arguing, “No, I –“

She raises her voice and talks over him. “Bullshit. You were blackout drunk, Kaner. You don’t know _what_ you did, or could have done. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a rumor. People already think hockey’s too dangerous for women playing – and thanks to you, every asshole who thinks hockey players are too rough, too violent, all those arguments that the NHL is just a bunch of mindless thugs – you just gave them years of ammo.”

Jonny swallows, hard, and keeps going. “And it’s not just them. Every girl who’s aiming for the league knows she’s going to hear a lot of shit on the ice. She knows she’s gonna get chirped more, boarded more, because we’re seen as easy targets. But if she can’t even trust that when she says a teammate gets drunk, gets pushy when she says no, it’s not going to get written off?”

“So why not press charges?” Patrick interrupts. He sounds a little defensive, but also like he’s genuinely curious.

She laughs bleakly. “Do you know what happens when women accuse athletes of attacking them? If she was drinking, then she was asking for it. Or she wants the media attention. Or she’s trying to ruin the guy’s reputation. No matter what, she’s the one who gets dragged through the dirt. So having to put that kind of trust in your team, when you already know that’s the worst case scenario? It’s not – a lot of women aren’t going to think it’s worth it.” She takes a beat to watch the words land. “Maybe it’s not.”

He’s silent for a long moment, worrying at his lip with his teeth. “And you – do you…”

God help her, she _does_.

Jonny has paid for hockey in sweat and blood and pain, but as much as she knows she shouldn’t, trusting Patrick has never been part of the price.

She doesn’t know how to explain that, though; makes herself snort incredulously instead. “Please. I could wipe the floor with you any day of the week.”

“You could try,” Patrick retorts, and then he flushes. “Uh.” 

Jonny just waits him out. (For the record – she could _totally_ take him. Thanks to a late growth spurt he has half an inch and a good twenty pounds on her, but Jonny’s been taking self-defense classes since she was twelve.) 

“I didn’t know,” he admits quietly. “I mean, my sisters read me the riot act – disrespecting women, being the kind of guy I’d always warned them not to date.” He shrugs, helpless. “I just didn’t realize it was gonna carry over into hockey.”

“Yeah, well. It does.”

“Fuck. I – you know I’d never do that on purpose, right?” He looks up at her, suddenly desperate. “Playing with you’s been the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, I’d never – what can I do? How do I fix this?”

“You can’t. No, listen,” she says, when he makes a noise of protest. “What are you gonna do, ask the cops to arrest you for assault?” He looks wrecked, like he might even be considering it. “Don’t be a dumbass,” she says sharply. “Just be _better_.”

Finally, she sees him nod, just a little.

“So do you – are we good?”

“Yeah,” she says, and thumps his back when he wraps himself around her in a rough hug. Pat’s eyes are a little red when he finally pulls away. “Try not to have too much fun in Biel.”

“Without you?” His smile is shaky but real. “No way.”

**November**

They start talking again, though once Pat leaves for Biel he seemingly decides to make up for the three months when they weren’t by sending her an appalling number of Snapchats.

_are you even playing hockey_ , she texts him once, because in a single morning he’s sent her photos of a chocolatier’s window display, the train station, the lake, the canals, his apartment, the view from said apartment, and about fifteen selfies of him with Donna, who looks increasingly bemused as the pictures progress.

_duh_ , comes the caption on his next photo, overlaid on an image of the rink.

The next one is a picture of the blue EHC Biel jersey. _i look better in red :(_ , he’s written.

There’s only one way she can respond to that.

_duh_ , she sends back, and puts it over an image of her own unimpressed face. He’ll know what she means.

She gets a call that night at 3AM, and growls wordlessly when she sees it’s Kaner calling.

“Whoa, man,” says definitely-not-Kaner. “This is Jonny Toews, right?”

It’s way too early – or late – to be polite. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Tyler Seguin.” It takes a few seconds for her sleep-fuzzy brain to come up with the Bruins, and by then Seguin’s already started chattering again. “Look, I know it’s ass o’clock in the States but I think we broke Kaner.”

“Then you can fucking fix him,” she snarls, and hangs up. The phone rings again before she’s even put it down.

Seguin doesn’t give her another chance to hang up. “I’m serious! I met him at the Combine last year, and now he’s acting really weird!”

Jonny thinks several uncharitable thoughts about the city of Boston in general and Seguin in particular, but if something’s actually wrong with Pat then it’s her job as his captain to deal with it.

“Weird how?”

“He’s like, fucking depressed or something. Spends all his free time in his apartment, won’t even come out to the bar for a drink on the weekends. I’m telling you, dude’s totally broken.”

“Sounds like a real problem,” she deadpans. “How’d you even get his phone in the first place?”

“Huh? Oh, stole it from his bag while he was in the shower –” There’s a sound of muffled swearing, and then dead air.

Jonny turns her phone off and sticks it under her pillow. Forget illness; it sounds more like Kaner took her parting words to heart. She’s...kind of surprised, actually, and more than a little guilty for being surprised.

She hasn’t thought of Pat as a good guy in a long time, but he _is_ , underneath all the bravado and alcohol, and she wishes the lockout were over so that she could tell him that in person.

And so they can play hockey again, of course.

**December**

Some day, Jonny’s going to learn to stop making promises she can’t keep. Things are looking so good that first week of December, though, that she’s giddy with the thought of starting the new year out right. The trainers are making encouraging noises about taking Hossa off of IR, Pat’s flying back for a week while EHC Biel’s on break, and she’s pretty sure the entire nation of Canada has been writing the North Pole asking for hockey back for Christmas.

Before Fehr’s disastrous press conference, she texts all the guys who aren’t in Chicago – Bicks and Frolik and Rozsival, Stalzy and Hoss and the entire crop of rookies sent down to the Hogs.

_think you need to pack your bags_

They all text back, cautious optimism from the vets and strings of exclamation marks and expletives from the rookies. 

Then the NHL rejects Fehr’s offer in front of God and the American media, and they’re back at square one.

She makes herself dial each and every Hawk she’d texted. “We’re gonna have a season,” she says, over and over again. “We’re not giving up yet.”

She saves Patrick for last, and it’s so early in Switzerland still that she half-hopes he won’t pick up.

“Jonny?” He sounds hopeful, and her gut twists with guilt.

“Hey, Pat,” she says. She’s going hoarse from choking back apologies; it’s not her fault but sometimes it sure feels like it. “I, uh. Guess you weren’t watching the press conference, but. It’s not looking too good.”

Quiet. “Oh.”

Then: “So you gonna come join me or what?”

He’s trying to cheer her up, but something in his voice makes her insist, “I’m not giving up on the season. Not yet.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Kaner replies. He’s laughing at her, she can just tell, but he still sounds a little wistful. “Can’t get enough of those lost causes, can you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she grumbles. She can feel the grin threatening the corners of her mouth.

“Uh huh,” Pat drawls, “Sure you don’t. People said Sidney Crosby was one-in-a-million, until you entered the draft. People said the Hawks were a losing team, until you led us to a Cup. What people said about me isn’t going to be repeated where my mom might overhear, but fuck if I’m not practically a respectable citizen these days, all ‘cause of you. And now you’re going to single-handedly end the lockout, because even Bettman can’t out-stubborn your hard head.” 

“You’re not a lost cause,” she says immediately.

“Whatever. The point is, you’re not coming to Switzerland because you’re a dumbass who doesn’t know when to give up.”

“I –”

“And we’re fucking lucky to have you on our side,” he continues, relentless. “So keep fighting, okay?”

Even if it’s the only one, this is a promise that she _can_ keep.

“Yeah. I will.”

Jonny’s hit with a weird sense of deja vu when she pulls up to the IceHouse on Monday, because Pat’s waiting for her outside the doors. He doesn’t offer her his hand, though, just gives a sheepish little wave which she ignores in favor of stepping in close, cupping the back of his skull so she can knock their foreheads together like they do sometimes after a goal. “Hey.”

Pat exhales, long and slow, into the space between them. “Missed you.”

“Of course you did,” Jonny says easily. “I’m the best center you’ve ever played with.”

Patrick laughs and steps back, ducking her attempts to ruffle his hair. “And so modest, too.”

“Well, sure. I _am_ Canadian.”

They chirp back and forth as they gear up, but Pat lays a glove on her wrist before she can step out onto the ice. His eyes are serious when he asks, “Still fighting?”

“Always,” she says, not even needing to think about it. She made a promise five years ago, to Patrick and the Hawks and this city. She plans on keeping it for the rest of her life.

**January**

It’s over. It’s _over_. They have a season.

Their first official day of the shortened training camp, the locker room is ebullient, spilling over with chatter and the pounding bass line of a song that sounds suspiciously like the Backstreet Boys. She makes it a point to go around welcoming all of the guys called up from Rockford by name, just like she would if it was August. Hoss shakes his head mournfully when she’s finishing up her circuit. “Always I think wrong person does heartbreaker celly.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she grumbles.

“No? Little Saader over there with the hearts in his eyes just my imagination?”

Jonny valiantly resists the urge to groan. “Great. Do I need to give him The Talk again?”

As captain, Jonny has a whole repertoire of speeches, ranging from ‘good fucking game’ to ‘we’re going to do better next time _or else_ ’, and she doesn’t mind those because they’re part of being a good leader.

The Talk is a different matter entirely.

It started back in her rookie season. She’d notched their fifth goal of the game against the Kings, was on her way back to the bench flushed with satisfaction and breathing hard, when Seabrook skated up behind her, said, “Nice job, kid,” and smacked her butt.

The entire Blackhawks bench went silent.

“Right,” Jonny had said after a moment. “We’re talking about this _after_ the game.” Seabrook had kind of looked like he wanted to throw up, and she’d shoved him back towards the blue line before clambering over the boards.

They beat LA six to three, and then Jonny stood in the locker room after the requisite congratulatory speech from Savvy, straightened her shoulders and said, “If I had a problem with people touching me, I wouldn’t be playing a contact sport.”

“Crosby _hates_ people touching her,” Buff pointed out. Jonny glared, and he raised his hands defensively. “Sorry, sorry, I’m shutting up now.”

“I’m not Crosby,” she bit out. “And being treated like a walking sexual harassment lawsuit fucking sucks.”

Sopel made a quiet noise of discontent. “We don’t want things to be taken the wrong way.” He had a young daughter, Jonny had remembered.

“If it’s okay with one of the guys, it’s okay with me,” she’d insisted. “And it’s not fucking flirting if I do it back, yeah?”

“Oh really?” Sharpy had asked, flexing exaggeratedly. “Sure you can resist all this, rookie?” A few guys chuckled or whistled, but most of them just watched her cautiously to see her reaction.

“I’m not dating a guy who spends more time on his hair than I do.” She panned the room, purposefully slow, then frowned. “Guess that includes all of you.”

There was a beat. Then Koci protested quietly, “But I’m _bald_.”

“Facial hair counts!” Jonny shouted into the clamor of hooting and chirping following _that_ pronouncement. And that had been that.

Ever since then, it’s been easier – not easy, but easier – to sit down with the trades and the rookies and explain that no, she doesn’t mind her team getting grabby, and _no_ , she does not, has not, and will never “want the D”.

The reactions have been getting marginally less awkward in the last few years. She thinks either Duncs or Sharpy has started warning the incoming Hawks before she can get to them, but maybe it’s time for a refresher.

Hoss just shakes his head again. “No, no. It’s puppy crush, you know. They come up to big leagues, meet famous Captain Serious, find out she’s human who jokes and smiles and plays good hockey.”

And it’s not like she’s going to stop doing any of those things, but she can’t help but feel a little guilty when she glances over at Saad’s stall just in time to see him drop his gaze and go pink around the ears.

“Seriously, though,” she grumbles to Pat after a sweaty, satisfying practice. “Happy to see you doesn’t mean anything other than _happy to see you_.”

Kaner looks more strained than their workout warrants, and she wonders if she should suggest he talk to the conditioning coach. But he quips, “So it really is just a puck in your pocket,” and when he starts laughing at her dismayed expression, the lines of tension melt away like they’d never been there at all.

**February**

“Since you’re in Chicago this week, any plans with a special someone for Valentine’s Day?”

“Two special someones,” Jonny says blandly. To a man, the reporters shove in closer, microphones jostling for position. “In fact, I think we’re all hoping to give Corey and Ray a better outcome against the Sharks. You can’t say those guys don’t deserve a little love.”

A couple of the regulars, who’ve been around long enough to pick up on her sense of humor, chuckle at the joke. The rest just look faintly pitying, like of course Jeanne Toews’ idea of a romantic gesture is being better for her goalies.

This is nothing new; Jonny’s seen the phrase “sexless hockeybot” get tossed around a couple of times by anonymous assholes on the internet. These are the same people who say that the Habs are more interested in being a diversity brochure than a good team, even though Chu and Subban and Price are all solid players and decorated Olympians to boot.

Which is to say: she knows it’s bullshit. She doesn’t let it get to her.

She does date, even, though she’d dumped her last boyfriend when he’d started making noises about how maybe her concussion was a sign that she should quit hockey and settle down. Between the playoffs and the lockout, she just hasn’t had the time for a relationship since then, and she’s pretty much stopped hooking up since their first Cup. Jonny likes winning trophies, not being one, and she’s come to terms with what that means for her love life: thank God for discreet shipping.

She’s not even really kidding around with the reporters. Tonight’s loss was a fucking travesty and it shouldn’t have happened. Fuck Corey Perry, and fuck their own pathetic inability to convert on the powerplay.

She can’t do anything about Perry – though it’s not, she thinks wistfully, like Anaheim cares enough about hockey to miss him if he were to meet with an unfortunate accident. She can damn well pick up the slack on the powerplay, though, and if watching game tape and running drills is what it takes to be better, those are the only Valentine’s Day plans she needs to make.

Her phone starts blowing up around 10PM anyways, all the single guys on the team trying to get a lonely-hearts group together. As someone who technically falls into that category, Jonny’s willing to ignore the increasingly ludicrous suggestions for how they’re going to find a Shawzy a “nice girl” until they start debating which strip clubs have the hottest dancers and whether a multimillion-dollar salary is enough to bribe one to overlook his motormouth.

 _GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP_ , she texts back. It’s nearly midnight, and they have morning skate and a game tomorrow. Then she turns her phone on silent and follows her own advice.

Skate is promising. Their powerplay units are clicking better than they were two days ago, and she’s feeling good about their chances. She’s gliding back to the bench for a drink when she overhears Shaw, leaning against the boards chatting with Kaner. “-I mean, imagine Tazer reading bedtime stories. It was fucking hilarious.”

She changes course so that she can shower him with snow. “Fuck you, I’d be great at bedtime stories. I just have better things to do than to tuck you losers in.” Shawzy sputters, wiping at his visor, and Sharpy, who has a sixth sense for these kind of things, skates by long enough to make a pitiful face and say,

“Aw, Cap, but Peeks really _wanted_ a bedtime story.”

Patrick swipes at him as he cackles and skates away, but Shawzy jumps right back in. “No way, man. Gotta leave something for us guys who don’t have girlfriends.” 

Patrick chokes on a laugh. “Are you trying to say that Jonny’s your consolation prize for being single?”

Shaw opens his mouth, looks at Jonny, and – wonder of all wonders – promptly shuts it again.

“Good choice,” she tells him flatly, and then goes to find her Gatorade.

Hours later, she’s waiting for her pasta to finish cooking and idly scrolling through her phone when she comes back to the group text from the night before. There are several new messages, all along the lines of _HOLY SHIT TAZER’S NICK FURY_ and _colonel serious??? DISCUSS._

Which, as far as new nicknames go, isn’t bad. She’s not Team Mom, no matter what the Sun-Times reporter says. She cares about the guys – many of them are her friends, not just her teammates – but she’s also their captain, and if she spends some extra time with the ones who are having a rough season it’s not as a fucking consolation prize. Kaner, of all people, should know that, and she’s just working herself up into agitation when something strikes her.

Pat hadn’t said _our_ prize. He’d said _your_. Sure enough, when she goes to check, Pat’s not listed in the group of guys who had been texting last night. Huh. She opens up a new message. 

_are you dating someone?_ she types out. Then she pauses. That’s kind of a weird thing to have to ask, isn’t it? She and Pat have been fine since he got back from Biel. Normal. She’d know if he was seeing anyone.

But the more she thinks about it, the more she starts to think about all the times Pat’s begged off of invitations since the season’s started. He goes out to the team dinners, but it’s been months since she’s seen him propping up a bar or sprawled out on her sectional during a video game tournament. Back when she was still on IR, he used to call her to report how the team looked and tell her that he was doing just fine at center, “So don’t even think about coming back ‘til you’re 100%.” 

They don’t do that anymore. Maybe it _is_ weird for her to ask if he’s got a girlfriend, and she waffles back and forth until her pasta nearly boils over and she has to scramble to save her lunch.

Fuck it. That’s what nosy teammates are for.

She waits until they’re suiting up to flick a towel at Sharpy two stalls over. “Remind me again how long Kaner’s been with his girl?”

Sharpy looks at her a little strangely, but says, “Uh, a couple of weeks. I think he said they met right after training camp.”

She makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to taping her socks. So Pat didn’t say anything to her. That’s fine.

It’s fine when they take the ice to the blaring goal horn, and it’s fine when Stuart slams into her shoulder-first and says, “Next time just ask, baby, I’ll make sure you spend Valentine’s day getting good and fucked,” and it’s fine up until the exact moment when Thornton pushes past her and mutters, “No wonder you’re single.” Which is, word for word, exactly what her her great-aunt had said at their last family reunion, only two summers ago Jonny didn’t respond by chasing aunt Martha down and cross-checking her into a wall.

Everyone knows that despite her temper, Jonny doesn’t fight. She’s learned how to cope with the ebb and flow of low-grade irritation during games – at herself, at the refs, at the crowd or the opposing players. Winning has always been an effective balm.

But she doesn’t know how to deal with this sudden wave of directionless fury, the unnerving sensation that she is on unsteady ground and yet stupidly oblivious of how much has already crumbled away beneath her feet.

So she drops her gloves and punches Thornton in the face.

He reacts the way she wants him to, knocking her stick away and tackling her to the ice. She twists as they’re falling, taking the bulk of his weight on her thighs and hips, and then she’s swinging, bare knuckles slamming against fabric and plastic. Pinned flat it’s actually easier to get in a few good right hooks before the linesmen pull him off of her, drag them both to their feet. Thornton’s helmet is askew, eyes angry and baffled. “What the fuck, Toews.”

She’s shaking as they tow her to the box, but the fading rush of adrenaline gives her clarity. She goes into the break feeling calmer, ready for Shawzy when he turns on her and demands, indignant, “What did that oversized asshole do?” She pointedly ignores the way the entire room tenses, bristling, ready to leap to her defense at a word.

“Nothing,” she says firmly. “And even if he had, it was a stupid penalty. You wanna make things better? Then go out there and let’s put some fucking points up.”

“Gonna get that Gordie Howe hat trick, eh, Toes?” Sharpy’s smirking like it’s a joke. Jonny just shrugs. A woman’s going to manage one sooner or later – it might as well be her.

They win 4-1, though she doesn’t get the hat trick. Thornton scowls as he skates past her, but she figures he’s probably more pissed about losing than about the check. They’re hockey players, and he’s experienced enough that he won’t take the shit that happens on-ice too personally.

That’s her team’s responsibility. She can see some of them already talking as they skate back towards the tunnel, Hoss and Duncs with their heads tipped in, Seabs casting worried glances back at her as he trails them. By the time Jonny gets to the locker room they seem to have reached a decision not to talk about it, preferring to chirp her for getting on the board solely in the form of penalty minutes. Kaner’s grinning along, but he also sidles close long enough to mutter, “You okay?” She nods, and he laughs and asks, “Then what the fuck was that? You taking lessons from the Mutt on punching above your weight?”

“Everyone’s above my weight,” she says dryly. “Hazard of being a girl in the NHL.” She looks at him consideringly. “I guess I could fight you.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t want to risk it.” Pat widens his eyes to proportions so exaggerated they’re practically Disney-like. “Thornton looked like he was about to cry when they escorted him off the ice, you know.”

“Ha ha.”

He boots her shinguard gently. “Seriously, though. If you say you’re alright, then I believe you, but maybe leave the fistfights to someone else.” She looks up, hearing the insistence in his tone, and hmms theatrically like she’s going to have to consider it. Patrick rolls his eyes. “Oh, no. I’m not inflating your ego by telling you how much we need you healthy and not flattened into a maple syrup pancake.”

Which is, in and of itself, a pretty convincing argument, considering that Pat spent a not-insignificant portion of last year trying to persuade her that the Hawks were just fine in her absence. She knows her concussion had them all worried, but Kaner seems to have gotten worse at hiding it. He looks almost upsettingly sincere underneath the taunting, and Jonny resolves not to start any more fights this season.

She finds it a lot harder to stick to her resolution when Hossa’s lying facedown on the ice like a terrible reenactment of the playoff-ending hit he took last season, Kesler smirking at her from across the benches not even pretending to be worried. Winning is a pale form of revenge, too, because there’s no word on Hoss, apart from the fact that he was well enough to go home rather than to the hospital.

It’s nearly midnight, and all she wants is to crash, hard, but when she finally escapes the locker room Patrick’s leaning against the wall waiting for her. He’s frowning down at his phone, but the stutter at the corner of his mouth speaks to unhappiness, not anger.

She takes a deep breath. The responsibilities of the C aren’t conditional on her good mood. “What’s up, man?”

Pat fumbles his phone, slipping it into a pocket on the second try. “Jonny.”

“In the flesh.”

“I, uh.” His shoulders shift and settle under the heavy wool of his suit. His words are frank. “I need your help.”

Oh, _shit,_ Jonny thinks, but she clamps down tight on the surge of anxiety. “Sure, Peeks.”

Patrick eyeballs her suspiciously. “Not gonna ask what I did now?”

“No,” she says, forcing her tone to stay even. “Do I need to? You’ve been playing well, you haven’t been going out when the guys want to get wasted, and the Google alert with your name on it has been pretty fucking quiet.”

His exhale is shaky. “Okay, that’s – we’re going to have a talk about creepy stalker behavior later, but – Jonny, I’ve been trying. You know I’ve been trying, right?”

Her confusion must show on her face, because he mutters a quiet curse and explains, “Trying not to be such a fuckup.”

“You’re not a fuckup,” she snaps.

Now Pat’s the one looking at her strangely. “Yeah, no. I’m pretty sure that what I did? That qualifies me as being a fuckup.”

“No, you _fucked up_ , past tense. That’s different.”

“Well, now I’m trying to be better, just like you told me!”

“Great,” she says steadily. “So what’s the problem?”

“Who says there’s a problem?”

“Kaner.”

“I – okay, so there’s a problem.” Pat’s fidgeting now, looking everywhere but at her face. “Maybe. I just –” He knuckles his eyes. “Tell me I’m not a fuckup again.”

“You’re not a fuckup. Kaner, what the hell is going –”

“I’m seeing someone,” he says in a rush. “Amanda. And I like her. I like her a lot.”

Fucking _finally_ , Jonny thinks, but she says, “Which is generally what you want to have happen, when you’re dating,” slow in the way the team doctors used to talk when she was concussed.

Pat doesn’t flip her off like she’s expecting, only bites his lip. “Yeah, but I don’t know if this is the ‘get married and have kids some day’ kind of love, you know? I mean, maybe it is, but what if it isn’t?” His voice drops quieter. “Or what if it _is_ , but not for me.”

She says, “Patrick.”

After a long moment, he lifts his chin to meet her stare. Jonny’s never seen him so unsure, not even during game six against the Flyers. The hallways of the UC are quiet.

“I’m trying to be better,” he says again. “But I fucked up _so badly_ in Madison, Jonny. I don’t – I can’t be that guy anymore. Not to Amanda, not to any girl.”

“So don’t be.”

He grimaces. “Like it’s that fucking easy.”

But deep down, she thinks, they both know that it really is. All Pat’s ever needed is someone to tell him to be better.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go get something to eat and you can tell me all about Amanda.”

“And celebrate your self-control in not going for another Gordie Howe against Kesler.” Patrick’s grin is weak, but it’s there. “I mean, national pride and all that, but even I have to admit the guy’s kind of a douche.”

“Me, start fights?” Jonny says innocently. “Never. Another girl can get the Howe.”

(Less than a week later, someone does. Jamie Benn is six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse, and the clip of her landing a series of vicious blows on Joe Thornton makes the front page of every sports news site on the web.

The Stars’ coaches are incredibly confused by the unsigned card on the fruit basket that arrives for #14 at the rink the next morning. It reads, quite simply: _nice fucking job_.)

**March**

Jonny’s not cocky. She thinks the Hawks have a good shot at the President’s Trophy, and the only way they’re not making the playoffs is if Crow, Razor, and the entire blue line quit hockey to take up competitive clogging instead.

But she isn’t going to get ahead of herself, not with the memory of their humiliating back-to-back loss to the Avs and the Oilers still fresh in her mind. The _Oilers_ , Jesus, and they hadn’t had the advantage once during the entire game. Between that and Anaheim, there’s plenty to keep her humble; as of tonight, they’re 0-for-3 against the Ducks. (She can’t say it often enough: fuck Corey Perry.) They can’t seem to catch a break, and if she were superstitious like Sid she’d probably be having a minor meltdown. As it is, she’s not happy.

“I don’t think they’ve gotten inside our heads,” she says during the scrum. “Souray’s a big guy with a killer shot, and I’m not surprised it broke Hammer’s stick, but I think we failed to capitalize on the momentum from 88’s equalizer – Anaheim took advantage of that, played well, and got lucky with the deflection. Obviously we’re disappointed, but if we meet them in the playoffs we’re gonna try and approach it as a clean slate.”

“So you think you’ll both make it to the playoffs, then?”

Jonny tries not to sigh at the obvious ploy for a soundbite. “I think anything could happen in the next few weeks, but we go out there each night playing to win. We’ve obviously got some things to improve on, especially while we’ve got some great guys out with injuries, but nobody thinks, ‘I don’t want the Cup this season’. Not on this team, and not on any other team in the league.”

Bullshit, of course – they’re qualifying, because hockey players aren’t the clogging type. But it’s bullshit so bland that the only people who will say she’s an arrogant bitch over it are the same ones who carry ‘go make me a sandwich’ signs during her games. (Jonny likes those people. She’s got a great endorsement deal with a local chain because of them, and The Cap is apparently one of Chicago’s best-selling subs.)

Nevertheless, she didn’t get where she is by taking her success for granted. So the next day she’s dragging herself from plane to bus to hotel to rink for optional skate, getting a feel for the ice before they play the Red Wings in the morning. Detroit’s only having an okay season, but that’s no excuse for Jonny not to play her best, especially with Sharpy and Hoss still absent.

She crashes hard after practice, sprawling out on the bed without even taking off her team jacket, and wakes only because her stomach starts to complain that it’s time to eat _now_. When she goes down to the third floor, though, none of the dozen conference rooms have a convenient sign indicating _team dinner here_ – and of course, today’s the day she left her cell to charge upstairs.

She’s about to turn back to go get it when she catches sight of two of the hotel’s catering staff pushing an empty cart out of one of the rooms. “Excuse me, do you know where the Chicago Blackhawks’ dinner is?”

One of the men looks her over, face carefully blank, and begins to say, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s –”

His coworker elbows him unsubtly. “Hall C, Ms. Toews. Just go around the corner and it’ll be on your left.”

“Thanks,” Jonny says, offering him her best PR smile.

She’s turned the corner when she hears the first man whistle. “I’d tap that.”

“That was _Jeanne Toews_ ,” comes the hissed reply, sounding outraged. “She has an Olympic medal _and_ she won the Stanley Cup!”

Their voices are growing fainter as they walk away, but she can still hear every word when the man laughs and says, “With that ass, who cares?”

They’ve given her accurate directions, at least. Hall C is filled with the familiar buzz of chatter, the clink of scraping plates as twenty-odd athletes stuff their faces. Jonny grabs one of the gluten-free plates that’s already been put together, and is scanning the room for a table to join when she hears:

“Damn, right in the mouth?”

“Yup. They were scooping teeth off the ice.” 

Gossip is as good as a reason as any, so she drops her plate down next to Rozsíval and Carcillo. She knows it’s too easy to neglect the veteran trades, guys who have been around the block a couple of times and don’t need the reassurance that the younger players do, so she makes a point of touching base with them every so often. It’s not exactly a hardship. They’re solid with the weight of experience – Rosey was drafted to the NHL back when Jonny was still in elementary school. Besides, they’ve got some wild stories, and she could use a distraction. “Whose teeth?”

“Crosby’s,” Carbomb offers, and Jonny twists to look at him as he continues, “Out indefinitely with a broken jaw. The puck deflected off one of her own guys’ stick, popped right up and _pow_.”

He mimes the impact, but all Jonny can think of is poor Sid, so incandescently happy to be playing again after the lockout that she’d nearly cried on Jonny’s shoulder for a second time.

Jonny doesn’t always _like_ Sid, because she’s pedantic and headstrong and, frankly, too damn similar to Jonny herself for them to ever be great friends. But Jonny loves hockey, and the reason she plays in the best league in the world is because Sidney Crosby loves hockey too. There’s a part of her that’s always going to love Sid for that.

“Makes you think twice about why the women’s leagues make ‘em wear full cages, huh?” Carcillo says.

“Yeah,” Rozsíval agrees, laughing wincingly. “It’s not like anyone cared whether Burnsie was missing half his teeth, but the kid’s cute. Or she was, anyways. People are gonna be asking for refunds on their tickets now.”

Jonny says, expressionless, “I don’t think that’s why Pittsburgh likes her.”

“Well, obviously that’s not the _only_ reason,” Rosey starts, miming a generously curved shape in the air before he gets a look at her face and pales. “Shit, Toews, put away the murder eyes, I can’t play tomorrow if I’m scattered in bloody chunks across this godforsaken city.” Next to him, Carbomb is frowning slightly, and he puts his hands up in a _what gives_? when she looks at him next.

“We’re not the goddamn Flyers,” she says flatly. “We don’t talk shit about Crosby unless it’s to her face.”

Rozsíval blows out a heavy breath. “Look, don’t kill me for asking, but – is this a girl thing?”

“Yeah, you don’t care if we joke about Sharpy getting a contract ‘cause he’s pretty,” Carbomb interjects.

“You were in Philly for three years,” she says to him, willing her voice to remain steady. “Can you honestly tell me that when your fans and your team said Crosby’s only in the show because she fucked every coach, owner, and official from here to Halifax, none of them meant it?”

He looks for a moment like he might argue the point, but Jonny keeps going, uncaring of the way the surrounding tables have fallen quiet to eavesdrop. “And fine – you think that girls don’t belong in the NHL, that’s your right. But she gave us this season. If nothing else, we all fucking owe her for that.”

The remainder of dinner is subdued. Jonny tries not to throw her weight around for stuff like that, but it’s _Sid_. That makes it about Jonny, too. That makes it about all of them.

Pat catches up to her as she’s getting into the elevator. “Hey, wait up.”

“Not now,” she bites out.

He blinks. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

She forces herself to drop her shoulders, rolling them out a couple of times. “Nothing.” And, because he’s still looking at her oddly, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he parrots back, but he trails her to the door of her single anyways.

“Goodnight, then,” she says pointedly, moving to go inside, and Pat catches her elbow awkwardly.

“Wait, shit. Can we talk? It’s, uh. Personal.”

Down the hall, the elevator chimes as it arrives at their floor, and Jonny abruptly realizes two things. One, she _really_ doesn’t want to face anyone else from the team right now, and two, every person in a fifty-foot radius can probably hear them. “Inside, move, come on.” She elbows Pat out of the way so that she can swipe her keycard and drag them both into the dark hotel room.

“What are you _doing_ ,” Patrick hisses.

“You wanted to talk.”

“I didn’t mean alone in your hotel room!” His voice cracks on the last word, but he has a point, and Jonny considers it for a moment. But she’s feeling reckless, bold, and maybe the lockout was good for something after all.

“You’ve got a single too, yeah? And both your keycards?”

He pats his pockets, checking, then nods, still looking a little wild around the eyes.

“Good,” she says. “Then we’ll talk here, and you can go back to yours once everyone’s up from dinner and not wandering around the halls. And don’t worry,” she adds, not breaking from her serious tone. “Your virtue is safe with me.”

He grins at the joke, but it fades quickly, and when she settles in the room’s only chair he flops backwards onto the mattress with a huge sigh. “I think I messed up,” he confesses to the ceiling. “I was gonna take Amanda out, three month anniversary type of thing, but. Someone got pictures, us on our last date. I don’t know if she’s seen ‘em yet, but she’s going to and she’s not – she’s not like that, you know?”

Kaner’s taken his girlfriend to exactly one team event, a (comparatively) quiet dinner at the Seabrooks’, so Jonny does know. Amanda’s sweet, and she doesn’t take any of Pat’s shit, but she seems pretty private. She’s not like Pat, who’s at least used to having his personal life splashed all over the place.

Still –

“I know this might sound hard to believe,” Jonny says, “But she’s probably aware that’s only one of many downsides to dating the great Patrick Kane. Including actually having to date Patrick Kane.”

Pat lifts his head enough to scowl at her. “Not helping, asswipe.”

She shrugs. “I’m not kidding. Just suck it up and tell her, man. If she likes you enough to stick around, she’ll learn to deal with the occasional creepy photo.”

“Why do I even bother?” he bitches, but he pulls out his cell, lips twitching upwards.

Jonny kicks at his ankle as she moves to the empty space in front of the bed to do her exercises. “You’re welcome, loser.”

“Put it away,” Patrick shouts jokingly when she strips down to her sports bra and boyshorts, but he’s too busy tapping away at his phone – texting Amanda about the photos, she hopes – to even look at her. Besides, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times over in the locker room, and she’s not fucking up her fitness routine before a game. She flips him off before starting a set of burpees.

She’s moved on to jumping lunges when he says, “Oh, yeah, I meant to ask. What were you so upset about after dinner?"

She glares at him and keeps counting, but he rolls so that he can lie on his stomach and prop himself up on his elbows to watch her, waiting her out.

She does another two sets of lunges and all her stretches before he prods, “So, earlier?”

Even her worst glare doesn’t seem to deter him. They’ve known each other for too long, she decides grumpily, but she says, as neutral as she can, “I was worried about Sid.”

She can’t complain about what the guys were saying at dinner. There’s friendship and then there’s being unprofessional, and she’s worked hard – harder than most – to keep that line clear.

Pat sucks in a sympathetic breath. “Yeah, I heard they’re not sure when she’ll be back. Fucking awful timing. The Pens have been killing it lately and they have a good shot at playoffs.”

Jonny nods, because both of those things are true, but he continues, almost as an afterthought, “Seriously, though, what’s _actually_ bothering you?”

She freezes in the bathroom doorway. “Nothing.”

“I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t know the difference between anxious and angry, dumbass,” Pat says fondly, and Jonny feels the tension in her spine ratchet up.

“I’m fine,” she says, and Patrick snorts.

“I recognize that as a Canadian you’re practically required to repress any emotions that aren’t ‘nice moose, eh’, but you’re also a terrible liar. Spill.” She hesitates a second too long, and he huffs. “Fine. I’m invoking the you-know-what rule.”

Jonny grimaces. She hates having ever made that stupid promise, but she swore on her Cup ring to be honest with her team. She says, “Some of the guys were joking about Sid. It was stupid chirping, that’s all.”

“What did they say?” he presses.

She aims for nonchalant and admits, “The only reason anybody wants to watch her play is because she’s hot. I know it’s dumb.” 

“I mean, it _is_ dumb,” he says immediately. “If you were going to watch hockey for hot chicks, why the hell would you go to Pittsburgh? Three words: Hilary. Fucking. Knight.” And then, “ _Ugh_ , Jonny!” when she whips her sweat-drenched towel at his head.

“If you’re going to joke about it,” she says stiffly, but he throws his hands up in instant apology.

“I’m not, I promise.” He’s silent for a moment, just watching her. “Really, though, why’s it bugging you so much? It’s not anything the nastier journalists haven’t been saying for years.” 

He has a point, Jonny thinks. She knows that the guys don’t think it of her – they don’t even really think it of Sid, probably, trash-talking because it’s what they do.

She _knows_ that, but she wants – 

“Jonny,” Pat says, emphatic like he’s been trying to get her attention. “Jonnnny. You didn’t answer my question.”

“You’ll live.”

“C’mon. Tell me why you’re so pissed off.” 

She wants –

He wrinkles his nose and adds, “And I can’t believe I have to say this, you jerk, but I promise it’s not getting back to the team if you don’t want –” 

“A guy from the hotel said my ass was more important than my Olympic gold,” she blurts out, and it sounds ridiculous out loud but she’s still getting angry all over again, remembering.

Kaner stares. “What?”

“So I just – I know it’s bullshit, but I didn’t want to hear it about me and I didn’t want to hear it about Sid, okay? Not from the people who are supposed to be on my team.”

“Okay,” Pat says quietly. “Okay, that’s fair.” He doesn’t say anything else for a minute, and then, casually, “You know how we brought hockey back to Chicago?”

“Because we have a great team that won us the Cup,” she says automatically, and he’s shaking his head before she’s even finished talking.

“Because you play _fucking incredible hockey_ ,” he corrects. Jonny blinks down at him. “You could look like the back end of a truck and it wouldn’t matter, because your hockey is the prettiest thing in the arena.” 

After a beat she says, “Second prettiest,” ignoring the spreading warmth radiating up the back of her neck. “There’s a reason it’s Kane and Toews.”

She swings the bathroom door closed on his delighted smile, and yells, “But if you tell anyone I said that, I’m denying it!”

**April**

A week later, the locker room is cheerfully earsplitting: they’ve clinched their berth in the playoffs. Foregone conclusion or not, there’s a certain nervy energy that comes with the official acknowledgement than in three weeks, they’ll be fighting for the Cup. They subside just enough for Q to offer his congratulations and then say, “Skate tomorrow morning is optional, so I’ll see you all on the plane to St. Paul at three.”

Which is Coach-speak for, “You have until 2:59 to get over your hangovers _._ ”

“Rockit?” Bolly throws out, and then looks guiltily over his shoulder at her like he thinks she’s going to put her foot down.

Which she would, on another day, but Jonny’s not going to bully them into skating when Q’s all but given them permission to go out – and this close to the playoffs, rest and recuperation become just as important as conditioning. If they’re going to drink – and they really, really are – she’d rather they sleep it off tomorrow instead of wearing themselves out at a sloppy practice.

“Why not?” she says, and a couple of the guys whoop.

“You heard the lady,” Sharpy commands. “Cap-mandated team bonding tonight, and don’t think we won’t notice if any of you losers try to skip out.” She doesn’t think she’s imagining the stinkeye he shoots Kaner at that last part.

But Pat’s there at the bar an hour later, stamping his feet to clear the slush from his shoes and making a beeline for the tables where the rest of the guys have set up court. He doesn’t flinch when they kick the night off with a round of celebratory shots, quirking his mouth into a tiny smile when he catches her watching. Jonny salutes him with her own shot glass before tipping it back in one long swallow.

Boozy indulgence aside, though, she still has a diet plan. The guys seem to have forgotten that for the night; Leddy buys five baskets of nachos for the table, and she restrains herself to a judgmental stare as they dig in.

That’s – well, in retrospect, Jonny thinks an hour later, blinking hard as she tries to get her vision to clear, that was probably a mistake. But Hammer had made a joke about ‘Shirley Temples for the shorties’, so of course she’d had to match him drink for drink.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of Jonny’s brain, there’s a rational part of her mind which understands that she can’t hold her liquor as well as the guys. That part knows that drinking competitions are never going to end in her favor.

The rest of her says, _take the goddamn shot._

She’s not drunk, not with the absurd quantities of lemon-pepper chicken and pasta she scarfed down at her condo before heading back out. But she’s drained from the back-to-back, those forty minutes of ice time taking their toll, and she’s definitely edging into fuzzily tipsy, exhaustion and alcohol making her lids and limbs heavy.

Somehow she’s gotten wedged into the back corner of a booth, shuffled inwards as guys get up for refills, and she finds herself next to Pat with a quiet feeling she’s sober enough to recognize as contentment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him, and he makes a face of hilarious alarm.

“Jesus, how wasted are you?”

“Fuck off, ’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” he says skeptically. She dead-arms him for that – or tries to. Her fist skids along the cap of his shoulder, and she winds up with an arm slung round his neck. Jonny thinks about it for a minute and then leaves it there, their heads pressed close.

“I mean it,” she says, quieter, into the inches between his face and hers. She pats his cheek with her far hand, prickly with stubble under her fingers. Five years ago he couldn’t even grow a playoff beard, she thinks, and: “I missed you.”

“Yeah,” Pat says. “Definitely drunk. Come on, O fearless leader, let’s get you out of here.” They stagger out the door together, and he lets her lean on him until the cab pulls up to take her home.

The next morning she wakes up to a splitting headache, a half-packed bag, and a text from Dani that just says _hahaha someone got WASTED_.

And because Dani isn’t actually a sadist, _you drunk-dialed, btw. no pics at last googling_.

 _hate you_ , Jonny types out.

Almost immediately, her phone buzzes. _nah, you love me. and kaner. and your goalies, and your alternates, and chicago, and the US but not as much as you love canada_

_which is good cause i’m pretty sure they’d take away your medal otherwise_

_also apparently you’re very proud kaner’s got his shit together_

_so that’s good?_

_yeah_ , Jonny says. _it’s good_

Then, _good :) also you’re jealous that sharpy’s helmet hair is less awful than yours_

 _LIES_ , she texts back.

_i mean you know i love you too but it really is_

_you’re the worst_ , Jonny sends, and rolls back over to sleep until the flight.

On the plane she wades through the knot of bleary-eyed teammates in front of the meal cart (and, more importantly, the coffee dispenser) to find Pat, stares him down wordlessly until he heaves a sigh and moves over to the window seat so she can take the aisle. She waits until they’re in the air to say, “Thanks.”

“Hm?”

Jonny rolls her eyes and hooks a finger around his headphone cord, tugging so that one earbud pops free. “I said, thanks. For getting me home last night.”

He shifts in his seat. “Uh, sure. No problem. Don’t need both halves of Kane and Toews drunk on Deadspin, right?”

That’s not why you did it, she thinks with sudden clarity. Even if nobody on the planet cared about the Chicago Blackhawks, he’d have still walked her out of that bar and gotten her home safe.

But on a plane in front of eighty percent of the Hawks organization is not the place for heartfelt admissions of gratitude. “Yeah, Peeks, you did good,” she says instead, and settles for ruffling his hair while he squawks.

**May**

Jonny has to fight through what feels like her entire team to get to Crow after their fourth quarterfinal game – a playoff shutout is a big fucking deal, and he’s taking in their congratulations with a huge smile, beaming through the wires of his mask. She can’t begrudge him a little validation; last year was hard on them all, but goalies get more shit for losses than anyone else on the team. She grabs his helmet between her hands and leans in close to shout, “Best goddamn ‘tender in the league!” He gets the belt in the locker room too, and everyone in the room can feel it: they have the Wild cold. 

Nobody’s going to say it where a reporter could overhear, though, so Kaner waits until the last of the cameras have cleared out to slant a grin at her and Sharpy. “Gotta stop letting the old man do all the work, Tazer. My sisters are visiting this weekend, and they’ve threatened to disown me if they don’t get their spa day with Jonny, so quit slacking off and let’s fucking win this thing already.”

“You’re just mad I’m their favorite,” she chirps back, and Seabs groans in mock frustration.

“Every time we try to throw you a birthday party you yell at us for not focusing on the Cup, but when Kaner’s sisters want a spa day…”

“Kaner’s sisters don’t try to buy me shots and a lapdance the day before a game,” she says, completely deadpan. That birthday had been interesting, to say the least.

“You only turn 21 once,” Sharpy says sagely. “We have to adopt the traditions of our host nation, inferior though they may be –”  
  
And that’s as far as he gets before Pat goes full William Wallace in his country’s defense, waving his shin guard like a broadsword and bellowing, “FREEDOM, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Jesus, her team.

The thing is, Jonny _likes_ spa day. After four years it’s kind of a tradition, though admittedly when Pat had sought her out after Christmas their sophomore season and said he needed someone to take his sisters for mani-pedis, he would go himself but he’s got an endorsement meeting he can’t get out of and the salon is booked solid the rest of their trip, Jonny _please_ , she’d been apprehensive.

Only, Pat’s sisters were smart and funny, Erica as charismatic as Kaner on his best days, Jackie athletic and showing flashes of a familiar competitive spirit. As for Jess, Jonny didn’t really know what to make of her until she revealed that she’d once constructed a three-scoop banana split in her brother’s favorite shoes after he decapitated her Barbie – cherries and all. “I was a very creative little kid,” she’d said, shrugging.

“Wow,” Jonny had said after a moment. “Hey, so there are these guys on my team who keep pranking me –”

She’s not lacking friends in Chicago anymore, but the Kane girls are still a lot of fun to spend an afternoon with. While they adore Pat with a fierce kind of pride, they’re also more than happy to share embarrassing childhood stories, and they’ve never minded having a bigger audience – she even brought Abby Sharp a couple years ago, when the other woman was newly pregnant and already fed up with her husband’s fussing.

So it’s something to look forward to in addition to winning. As expected, they trounce the Wild, and Pat runs her down during skate the next day. Practice is more informal than usual, everybody pleased with the decisive end to their first series, and nobody cares when he hops up onto the boards to talk to her, legs swinging.

“Hey, I booked the appointments for Saturday morning. Though, uh –” His whole face wrinkles in sudden awkwardness. “Is it weird if Amanda tags along? She knows my sisters are gonna be in town this weekend, and I don’t want her to think I don’t care about whether or not they like her, you know.”

Jonny doesn’t see why Amanda can’t just take her place, and she says so. Pat stares at her for several long, incredulous seconds. “You’ve met my sisters,” he says finally. “So I’m going to assume that was temporary insanity and you didn’t _actually_ just suggest I leave my girlfriend alone with them for an hour and a half.”

Okay, now that she thinks about it there had been a surprisingly intense grilling session that first time, but Jonny deals with less friendly media scrums on a weekly basis. Amanda...doesn’t. “Why don’t you come instead of me, then?”

“Erica said I couldn’t,” he says, gnawing on his lip with a frown. “Apparently this year it’s ‘girl time’.” Even his air quotes look disgruntled.

“Fine,” she sighs. “So what, you want me to make sure they don’t scare her off?”

“You’re a goddess among hockey players,” Pat says gratefully. “Yes. Please.” She thinks he’s overreacting, but whatever. He’s always been a soft touch with the people he really cares about.

Admittedly, Amanda does sound like she’s only half joking when she asks on Saturday, “So is this when I get the ‘if you break his heart, I’ll break your legs’ speech?”

Erica looks her over consideringly, and then grins, wide and wicked. “Nah, it won’t be me. Jonny’s clearly the muscle of this operation.” 

“Makes sense.” Amanda laughs, and she doesn’t stop smiling but it sounds less like a joke when she says, “Captain’s gotta watch out for her team, right?”

“I’m not breaking anyone’s legs,” Jonny says long-sufferingly.

“Then we’ll just have to get along,” Jackie chirps, twining her arm through Amanda’s. To her credit, she goes with it, letting Jackie drag her into the salon. They end up deciding on matching manicures patterned like the Hawks’ home jersey, but the paintjob isn’t the point. Jonny’s limbs have been soaked and scrubbed and massaged into limp and blissful oblivion. Her feet haven’t felt this clean since – well, since the last time they came here. 

They’re all chatting idly while they wait for the polish to dry, and Jonny’s about ready to doze off in her recliner when Jess turns to her innocently and says, ”So, you seeing anyone these days?”

On Jonny’s other side, Amanda chokes on a giggle. “No, no, I’m sorry,” she manages when they all stare at her. “It’s just, Pat keeps bothering me about setting you up with, and I quote, ‘a nice guy who won’t give a shit that she makes five times what he does’. I mean, you’re great,” she continues, shooting Jonny an apologetic grin. “But I’m pretty sure that would be the double date from hell.”

Which is probably a fair assessment. Amanda’s important to Kaner, and she’s surprisingly relaxed about the fact that her boyfriend spends a lot of time getting paired with his female teammate, but she and Jonny have approximately zero interests in common apart from Patrick himself. She can’t imagine that Amanda’s friends are much different.

“For a guy with three sisters, Patty can be really dumb sometimes,” Jackie says, rolling her eyes.

“I dunno, it’s kind of sweet,” Erica says thoughtfully. “In a stupid way, sure,” she adds when Jonny glares at her. “But it’s like, he’s happy, and he just wants you to be happy too.”

“I’d be a lot happier if he quit playing amateur matchmaker,” Jonny grumbles. “No offense to your friends, of course.”

Amanda grins. “None taken.”

And that’s the last good day Jonny has for a while.

The flight back to Chicago after they drop their second away game is one of the worst she can remember. Not a single fucking goal. The confidence from beating the Wild is gone. Tomorrow, in the locker room, she’ll stand up and talk to her team, try to give them some of that confidence back.

Tonight, she doesn’t know that she can face them. Not with the way she played.

“Hey, Toes,” Sharpy says quietly, dropping into the seat next to her. “Can’t sleep?”

She shrugs. “Not tired.”

He tsks gently. “I know you’re not going to listen if I say that tonight wasn’t your fault, so pretend that I said it, and that you ignored me, and that my duty as your alternate has been duly discharged, okay? Duncs has been giving me the evil eye since takeoff.”

“Alright,” she says, and presses her forehead to the cool surface of the window once he’s gone.

In the morning, Jonny stands barefoot in front of the mirror, looking. The jut of her hipbones is more prominent than usual, but she’s still fit by anyone’s standards, capable of keeping up on the ice. Fighting to keep enough weight on is just an inevitability of making the playoffs, like relearning familiar faces under new stubble.

She touches her own hair, mussed from its braid. Obviously she can’t grow a beard, and the one time PR tried to convince her to do racing stripes like Kaner’s she’d stared at them blank-faced until they gave up and went away. She’s not superstitious, and she doesn’t need the reminder of what’s at stake.

She put Detroit on the powerplay. She lost her team the game. Maybe – and it hurts to even think it – maybe she lost them the Cup.

Despite that, getting dressed is meditative, a familiar litany of sports bras and button-ups and soft linen pants. (The moment she steps out of her apartment, she has to believe that they can turn this around.) She knots her hair in a loose bun at the base of her skull where she can tuck it up under her helmet, and slides a handful of plain black rubber bands onto her right wrist. Some of the guys have sworn off scissors entirely, and she’s taken to handing out hair ties like candy. (None of them will believe that they can win tomorrow night if she doesn’t believe it herself.) She slides on her shoes, and opens the door.

The Blackhawks aren’t going out without a fight.

**June**

The playoffs grind onwards. They’re all feeling battered coming out of the series with Detroit, and when her alarm goes off at 6AM the morning of their first game against the Kings, Jonny wants to bury her face in her pillow and never come back out. Press obligations during the Cup run are always a bit of a shitshow, half-dead players facing off against hordes of reporters who are happy to forget that hockey exists ten months out of the year.

At least everyone more or less gives up on making them look presentable – if they have the energy to drop off their dry cleaning, they’re not playing hard enough – so she stumbles into the UC in a suit that is disheveled at best. Their PR coordinator is too busy to muster up more than a brief glare at her rumpled shirt, because Kaner’s rocking some major bedhead and at least Jonny’s got all her buttons buttoned. Finally he escapes the scolding and makes his way over to where Jonny’s slumping against the wall, sliding down to the floor so he can thunk his head against her thigh.  
  
“Misery, meet company,” he mumbles into her pant leg. “They should warn you about this shit when you’re dreaming about the NHL as a kid.”

“Fame, glory, and endless fucking press conferences,” she agrees tiredly. He’s right, though. At least they’re in this together. She and Kaner arrive early and stay late after every game and practice, giving interviews in voices gone rough with shouting. As the grueling pace of the postseason begins to take its toll, she spends more and more time pulling guys aside, making sure they’re eating and sleeping and not falling apart when she’s too tired to notice. More often than not, when she looks up from her own conversation she finds Pat messing around with the younger guys, couching advice and reassurance in chirps and ‘your mom’ jokes. Jonny’s just glad that whatever he’s doing seems to work. She knows that some of the rookies are thrown off by her intensity, but she can’t be any other way right now. She feels like she’s been stripped down until all that’s left is her drive to win, ferocious and unshakeable. She wants the Cup.

And then Pat gets a fucking hat trick against the Kings, and they’re on to the Finals.

They’re playing the Bruins, which is both a blessing and a curse. She’s kind of glad not to be playing Sid, but Chara towers a full foot over her and she doesn’t really want to hear any more questions about whether she’s worried that they’ll be outweighed – and, the implication is, outclassed – on the ice.

She’s not. Neither is her team.

She skates and sleeps and skates and eats and skates some more and then Bettman is handing her the Stanley Cup, thirty-four and a half pounds of history and victory and she doesn’t even have to force a smile when she stands next to him because that’s the _Cup_ between them. It is bright and beautiful in her hands, and she kisses it, throws her head back and screams joyously.

The instant the it leaves her grip, she gets slammed by her Rockford boys. Saader’s eyes are suspiciously bright, Shawzy chanting, “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ ,” like he still can’t believe it. She can’t even come close to fitting her arms around all of them but she makes the effort anyways, and the white-hot buzz under her skin settles into something that warms her from the inside out.

From her little huddle she spots Kaner, tangled up in his own laughing, shouting group of people. She can see every flicker of emotion that crosses his face and she understands, feels them resonating in her own chest, pride and relief and love for this sport and this team that has brought them to this moment.

She watches Pat accept the Cup, his eyes squeezing shut as he brings it to his lips. He’s won the Conn Smythe too, and that’s good, that’s _right_ , his name etched not far from hers. Where it belongs, she thinks, and somehow it’s easy to be happy about that, easier than it’s ever been before. The two of them, sharing the glory of their impossible dream. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it always will be, and Jonny – 

She wouldn’t change a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic discusses the accusations about Patrick choking a woman in Madison. Whether or not he really did is not for me to say, and in the fic he doesn't remember the events of that night. Jonny deals with verbal sexual harassment in the form of on-ice chirping and comments made by members of the public, and she and Pat talk about the possibility of male athletes sexually harassing/assaulting their female teammates. Also, non-famous friends, family, and romantic partners make brief appearances.
> 
>  **ETA:** Specifically, Jonny calls Patrick out over the fact that sports culture tends to forgive or ignore accusations of assault on women in favor of blaming the victim, making female athletes who want to play hockey less likely to do so because they don't know that the league or other players will support them if they're assaulted.


End file.
